Meanwhile, M. Pons was explaining to West that whether you went in for science or modern languages one's opinion of this sort of affair must be the same, there was no question about it.
Birkland was sitting back, white and stiff in his chair and wishing that he might take all their heads and crash them together in one big debacle.
Then suddenly, when another two minutes might have been dangerous for everyone concerned, the door was flung open, and Clinton entered. He was excited, he was stirred; it was obvious that he had news.
“I say!” he cried, and then stopped. All eyes were upon him.
“What do you think?” he cried again, “Traill has just told me. He 's engaged to Miss Desart.”
At that there was dead silence—for an instant nobody spoke. Then Comber got up from his chair. “Well, I'm damned!” he said.
This was a new development; it is hard to say whether he saw at once then the domestic complications into which it would lead him. Miss Desart had stayed with them again and again; she was their intimate friend. His wife was devoted to her and would, of course, at once espouse her cause. But this piece of news made him, Comber, even angrier than he had been before. His feeling about the engagement defied analysis, but it rested in some curious, hidden way on some strange streak of vanity in him. He had always cared very especially for Miss Desart; he had given her, in his clumsy, heavy way, little attentions and regards that he gave to very few people. He had always thought that she had very great admiration and reverence for himself, and now she had engaged herself without a word to him about it to someone whom he disliked and disapproved of. He was hurt and displeased, he knew that his wife would be delighted—more trouble at home. Here was White openly insulting him in the common room; he was called names by Birkland; a nice, pleasant girl had defied him (it had already come to that); his wife would probably defy him also in an hour or two—with a muttered word or two, he left the gathering.
For the others, this engagement was a piquant development that lent a new color to everything. They had all noticed that Mr. Perrin cared for Miss Desart, and now this sudden dramatic announcement was another knock in the face for that poor, battered gentleman. Of course, she would never have accepted him; but, nevertheless, it was rather hard that she should be handed over to his hated rival.
“Does Perrin know?” was West's eager question.
“No,” said Clinton smiling, “I'm just going to tell him.”