Now, Stanley Moncrief was at this time in his dormitory, very miserable. He had been so, in fact, ever since he had broken with Paul. He had a real affection for him. He had loved him as he might have loved a brother; then, after his defeat at the sand-pit, he felt that there was only one thing to be done, and that was to—hate him. So he had broken off the friendship, and rushed into the arms of the two whom he disliked—Newall and Parfitt.
But when Stanley began to reflect a little more deeply, he began to see that he could not altogether shake off the old link that bound him to Paul. He had always been comfortable and at ease with him—could sit with him, as it were, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers. He had felt at home with him from the first day they met. He could not feel the same with Newall or Parfitt, try as he might. He seemed to be ever acting a part when he was with them, and they seemed to be doing the same when they were with him. For instance, he would have liked to have read the letter Paul sent him by Waterman; but the eyes of Newall were upon him, so he tore it up in bravado, and scattered the fragments in the way already described. It was not Stanley's real self did that—he was acting a part.
Again, when Paul entered the common room, looking so sad and miserable, Stanley's heart prompted him to stay and speak to his old friend. Perhaps he might have done so had he been alone; but he felt that the eyes of the others were upon him, especially Newall's. Something was expected of him. He was to give the lead; so he gave the lead, by walking from the room, and the rest followed him, with the solitary exception of Waterman.
Then he joined in the laughter and the jeers of his new-found friends when they got outside, all at the expense of Paul. Again, Stanley was acting a part. At heart he felt miserable. The sadness of Paul's face haunted him, and as soon as he could he escaped from his companions to the solitude of the dormitory.
He had been puzzled all along how it was Paul had acted in such a cowardly way at the sand-pit. He knew that he had no love for fighting; but once having taken up the gage of battle, he was not one to shrink from it. What was it his father had said? That no braver youth could be found than Paul Percival. His uncle had the same opinion, and they were not the men to make mistakes. Had his nature suddenly altered, or what had happened? More and more he regretted that he had not opened Paul's letter. It might have given him the answer to the riddle.
So Stanley sat on the side of the bed for a long time, very miserable. Indeed, I very much question whether of the two he was not the more miserable. It is true that nearly all Paul's companions dropped away from him; but perhaps it was better to lose companions than to have those you did not really want.
"It is all a hideous mistake. I'll go and make it up with Paul," he thought.
As he was thus thinking, the door opened, and his cousin entered.
"Well, Harry, what do you want?" he asked gruffly, as though resenting the intrusion.
Harry eyed him for a moment without answering.