Pen had been standing with his back to the window, and to such a dubious light as Bury-street enjoys of a foggy January morning, so that his uncle could not see the expression of the young man's countenance, or the looks of gloom and despair which even Mr. Morgan had remarked.
But when the major came out of his dressing-room, neat and radiant, and preceded by faint odors from Delcroix's shop, from which emporium Major Pendennis's wig and his pocket-handkerchief got their perfume, he held out one of his hands to Pen, and was about addressing him in his cheery high-toned voice, when he caught sight of the boy's face at length, and dropping his hand, said, "Good God! Pen, what's the matter?"
"You'll see it in the papers, at breakfast, sir," Pen said.
"See what?"
"My name isn't there, sir."
"Hang it, why should it be?" asked the major, more perplexed.
"I have lost every thing, sir," Pen groaned out; "my honor's gone; I'm ruined irretrievably; I can't go back to Oxbridge."
"Lost your honor?" screamed out the major. "Heaven alive! you don't mean to say you have shown the white feather?"
Pen laughed bitterly at the word feather, and repeated it. "No, it isn't that, sir. I'm not afraid of being shot; I wish to God any body would. I have not got my degree. I—I'm plucked, sir."
The major had heard of plucking, but in a very vague and cursory way, and concluded that it was some ceremony performed corporally upon rebellious University youth. "I wonder you can look me in the face after such a disgrace, sir," he said; "I wonder you submitted to it as a gentleman."