The news came to Martin through Rayner, who, though secretly pleased at Anstey's discomfiture, honestly admitted that Heseltine hadn't played the game. Martin listened to him in silence: he did not volunteer any conversation and was glad that Rayner went away at once.
He picked up a book and went straight to Heseltine's study.
"Can I speak to Anstey?" he asked quietly, "It's about some words in Homer!"
Heseltine looked at him suspiciously: he could hardly call him a liar to his face. "Very well," he said. "But don't stay."
Martin found Anstey in his arm-chair. His face was very white and when he saw Martin he smiled the forced, flickering smile that is so often born of an effort to conceal pain.
"It's all right," said Martin, "I've got permission."
Anstey told him to sit down.
"It's frightfully rotten luck," Martin began. "Heseltine is simply a devil."
"He didn't hurt me as much as he thought he had."
The thought gave Martin a thrill: it was something more than sympathy.