“Mr. Traill.”
Each master had two pigeon-holes into which he might put his papers and his letters; considerable friction had been caused by people putting their papers into other people's pigeon-holes. On the opposite wall was an enormous, shiny map of the world, with strange blue and red lines running across it. The third wall was filled with the fireplace, over which were two stern and dusty photographs of the Parthenon, Athens, and St. Peter's, Rome.
Although the air was sharp with the first early hint of autumn, the windows were open, and a little part of the garden could be seen—a gravel path down which golden-brown leaves were fluttering, a round empty flower-bed, a stone wall.
On the large table in the middle of the room tea was laid, one plate of bread and butter, and a plate of rock buns. Dormer, a round, red-faced, cheerful-looking person with white hair, aged about fifty, and Clinton, a short, athletic youth, with close-cropped hair and a large mouth, were drinking tea. Clinton had poured his into his saucer and was blowing at it—a practice that Perrin greatly disliked.
However, this was the first day of term, and everyone was very friendly. Perrin paused a moment in the doorway. “Ah! here we are again!” he said, with easy jocularity.
Dormer gave him a hand, and said, “Glad to see you, Perrin; had good holidays?”
Clinton took the last rock bun, and shouted with a kind of roar, “You old nut!”
Perrin, as he moved to the table, thought that it was a little hard that all the things that irritated him most should happen just when he was most inclined to be easy and pleasant.
“Ha! no cake!” he said, with a surprised air.
“Oh! I say, I'm so sorry,” said Clinton, with his mouth full, “I took the last. Ring the bell.”