Eric turned away from the window, deeply sighed. He was weary—weary to the bone. He was weary of the Hall, of Cambridge, of London, of himself, of everything and everybody. He was too tired to feel unhappy, except by starts. And now he’d got to work. He was always working. He was getting very round-shouldered and his head continually ached. He needed stronger glasses. He knew it and did nothing. There was a certain satisfaction in doing injury to his health and a certain pride in his obstinate, stupid powers of resistance. Other people had nervous breakdowns. He despised them. He knew that, tired out as he was, he’d get through the Trip. He’d get a first. Other people were brilliant and erratic. He just slogged on. He couldn’t help it. If he’d gone into the examination-room with the deliberate intention of failing, he couldn’t have brought himself to it—his nature would have revolted. His Tutor had no need to urge him anxiously, as he sometimes did: “Don’t overstrain. Don’t get stale.” He wasn’t a neurotic heavyweight boxer. He wouldn’t disappoint his backers.

In his first year, Eric had been something of a social success. To be a senior scholar was, after all, a distinction. And for a time he’d lent himself to the atmosphere, gone in for politics, written articles in one of the less frivolous University magazines, occasionally even spoken at the Union, where his measured sentences, carefully avoiding the stammer, had produced an impression. He’d joined a running club and gone for long gruelling runs. Now all that seemed mere waste of time. He’d dropped completely out of College life, become a recluse, the subject of mild jokes.

After all, Eric decided, I’ll go. What do I care if he’s there or not. It’ll make a change. I shall get out of this room for an hour or two, at any rate.

But now I must work, thought Eric, turning wearily to his books and files of notes, sitting down at the table, prodding forward his tired, patient brain, already so overburdened with the loads he had put upon it during the last two years—now I must work.

*   *   *

“Is that you, ducky? Come up,” shouted Maurice from the top of the stairs.

He was very smartly dressed and rather conscious of it. Eric didn’t like his fashionable little double-breasted waistcoat or his pointed shoes. He’d obviously already had a few drinks:

“I haven’t seen you for simply ages.”

“Not since last night,” Eric smiled.

“I say, did I really see you last night? So I did, of course. What an idiot I am, aren’t I?”

“What did you do with the signpost?” Eric asked.

“It’s been in the sitting-room. But Mrs. Brown doesn’t like it; do you, Mrs. Brown?” For the landlady had appeared with a tray.