“When will he send a formal resignation?”
“Haven’t an earthly! Like all these youngsters he’s very casual about these things. As a matter of fact, the longer he delays the better.”
“You mean it gives us a chance to look about us?”
“Quite. You see, nothing need come before the College till he writes. One wants to have the whole question of his successor taped before that.”
“Obviously. That is most important. Once you present an open question to all these people who don’t understand the field and don’t know their own minds you may get anything happening.”
“Exactly. That’s what we want to avoid. The only way to manage a place like this is to produce your candidate-bring the rabbit out of the hat-two minutes after you’ve announced the vacancy.”
“We must begin thinking about it at once.”
“Does his successor have to be a sociologist? I mean is the Fellowship tied to the subject?”
“Oh, not in the least. It’s one of those Paston Fellowships. Why? Had you any subject in mind?”
“It’s a long time since we had anyone in politics.”
“Um . . . yes. There’s still a considerable prejudice against politics as an academic subject. I say, Feverstone, oughtn’t we to give this new subject a leg up?”
“What new subject?”
“Pragmatometry.”
“Well, now, it’s funny you should say that, because the man I was beginning to think of is a politician who has also been going in a good deal for pragmatometry. One could call it a fellowship in social pragmatometry, or something like that.”
“Who is the man?”
“Laird-from Leicester, Cambridge.”
It was automatic for Curry to look very thoughtful, though he had never heard of Laird, and to say “Ah, Laird. Just remind me of the details of his academic career.”
“Well,” said Feverstone, “as you remember, he was in bad health at the time of his finals, and came rather a cropper. The Cambridge examining is so bad nowadays that one hardly counts that. Everyone knew he was one of the most brilliant men of his year. He was president of the Sphinxes and used to edit The Adult. David Laird, you know.”
“Yes, to be sure. David Laird. But I say, Dick.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not quite happy about his bad degree. Of course I don’t attach a superstitious value to examination results any more than you do. Still . . . we have made one or two unfortunate elections lately.” Almost involuntarily as he said this, Curry glanced across the room to where Pelham sat-Pelham with his little button-like mouth and his pudding face. Pelham was a sound man: but even Curry found it difficult to remember anything that Pelham had ever done or said.
“Yes, I know,” said Feverstone, “but even our worst elections aren’t quite so dim as those the College makes when we leave it to itself.”
Perhaps because the intolerable noise had frayed his nerves, Curry felt a momentary doubt about the “dimness “of these outsiders. He had dined recently at Northumberland and found Telford dining there the same night. The contrast between the alert and witty Telford whom everyone at Northumberland seemed to know, whom everyone listened to, and the “dim” Telford in Bracton Common Room had perplexed him. Could it be that the silences of all these “outsiders” in his own college, their monosyllabic replies when he condescended and their blank faces when he assumed his confidential manner, had an explanation which had never occurred to him? The fantastic suggestion that he, Curry, might be a bore, passed through his mind so swiftly that a second later he had forgotten it forever. The much less painful suggestion that these traditionalists and research beetles affected to look down on him was retained. But Feverstone was shouting at him again.
“I’m going to be at Cambridge next week,” he said, “in fact I’m giving a dinner. I’d as soon it wasn’t mentioned here, because, as a matter of fact, the P.M. may be coming, and one or two big newspaper people and Tony Dew. What? Oh, of course you know Tony. That little dark man from the Bank. Laird is going to be there. He’s some kind of cousin of the P.M.’s. I was wondering if you could join us. I know David’s very anxious to meet you. He’s heard a lot about you from some chap who used to go to your lectures. I can’t remember the name.”
“Well, it would be very difficult. It rather depends on when old Bill’s funeral is to be. I should have to be here for that of course. Was there anything about the inquest on the six o’clock news?”
“I didn’t hear. But, of course, that raises a second question. Now that the Blizzard has gone to blow in a better world, we have two vacancies.”
“I can’t hear,” yelled Curry. “Is this noise getting worse? Or am I getting deaf?”
“I say, Sub-Warden,” shouted Ted Raynor from beyond Feverstone, “what the devil are your friends outside doing?”
“Can’t they work without shouting?” asked someone else.
“It doesn’t sound like work at all to me,” said a third.
“Listen!” said Glossop suddenly, “that’s not work. Listen to the feet. It’s more like a game of rugger.”
“It’s getting worse every minute,” said Raynor. Next moment nearly everyone in the room was on his feet. “What was that?” shouted one. “They’re murdering someone,” said Glossop. “There’s only one way of getting a noise like that out of a man’s throat.” “Where are you going?” asked Curry. “I’m going to see what s happening,” said Glossop. “Curry, go and collect all the shooters in College. Someone ring up the police.” “I shouldn’t go out if I were you,” said Feverstone, who had remained seated and was pouring himself out another glass of wine, “it sounds as if the police, or something, was there already.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen. There!”
“I thought that was their infernal drill.”
“Listen!”
“My God . . . you really think it’s a machine-gun?”
“Look out! Look out!” said a dozen voices at once as a splintering of glass became audible and a shower of stones fell onto the Common Room floor. A moment later several of the Fellows had made a rush for the windows and put up the shutters: and then they were all standing staring at one another, and silent, but for the noise of their heavy breathing. Glossop had a cut on the forehead, and on the floor lay the fragments of that famous east window on which Henrietta Maria had once cut her name with a diamond.
Five
I
Next morning Mark went back to Belbury by train. He had promised his wife to clear up a number of points about his salary and place of residence, and the memory of all these promises made a little cloud of uneasiness in his mind, but on the whole he was in good spirits. This return to Belbury-just sauntering in and hanging up his hat and ordering a drink-was a pleasant contrast to his first arrival. The servant who brought the drink knew him. Filostrato nodded to him. Women would fuss, but this was clearly the real world. After the drink he strolled upstairs to Cosser’s office. He was there for only five minutes, and when he came out his state of mind had been completely altered.
Steele and Cosser were both there and both looked up with the air of men who have been interrupted by a total stranger. Neither spoke.
“Ah-good morning,” said Mark awkwardly. Steele finished making a pencil note on some large document
