“How silly,” he said aloud, “I haven’t got my chequebook with me.”

A moment later he found himself on the stairs with Feverstone.

“Well?” asked Mark eagerly. Feverstone did not seem to hear him.

“Well?” repeated Mark. “When shall I know my fate? I mean, have I got the job?”

“Hullo, Guy! “bawled Feverstone suddenly to a man in the hall beneath. Next moment he had trotted down to the foot of the stairs, grasped his friend warmly by the hand, and disappeared. Mark, following him more slowly, found himself in the hall, silent, alone, and self conscious, among the groups and pairs of chattering men, who were all crossing it towards the big folding doors on his left.

II

It seemed to last long, this standing, this wondering what to do, this effort to look natural and not to catch the eyes of strangers. The noise and the agreeable smells which came from the folding doors made it obvious that people were going to lunch. Mark hesitated, uncertain of his own status. In the end he decided that he couldn’t stand there looking like a fool any longer, and went in.

He had hoped that there would be several small tables at one of which he could have sat alone. But there was only a single long table, already so nearly filled that, after looking in vain for Feverstone, he had to sit down beside a stranger. “I suppose one sits where one likes?” he murmured as he did so; but the stranger apparently did not hear. He was a bustling sort of man who was eating very quickly and talking at the same time to his neighbour on the other side.

“That’s just it,” he was saying. “As I told him, it makes no difference to me which way they settle it. I’ve no objection to the I.J.P. people taking over the whole thing if that’s what the D.D. wants, but what I dislike is one man being responsible for it when half the work is being done by someone else. As I said to him, you’ve now got three H.D.s all tumbling over one another about some job that could really be done by a clerk. It’s becoming ridiculous. Look at what happened this morning.” Conversation on these lines continued throughout the meal.

Although the food and the drinks were excellent, it was a relief to Mark when people began getting up from table. Following the general movement, he recrossed the hall and came into a large room furnished as a lounge where coffee was being served. Here at last he saw Feverstone. Indeed it would have been difficult not to notice him, for he was the centre of a group and laughing prodigiously. Mark wished to approach him, if only to find out whether he were expected to stay the night and, if so, whether a room had been assigned to him. But the knot of men round Feverstone was of that confidential kind which it is difficult to join. He moved towards one of the many tables and began turning over the glossy pages of an illustrated weekly. Every few seconds he looked up to see if there were any chance of getting a word with Feverstone alone. The fifth time he did so, he found himself looking into the face of one of his own colleagues, a Fellow of Bracton, called William Hingest. The Progressive Element called him, though not to his face, Bill the Blizzard.

Hingest had not, as Curry anticipated, been present at the College meeting, and was hardly on speaking terms with Lord Feverstone. Mark realised with a certain awe that here was a man directly in touch with the N.I.C.E. one who started, so to speak, at a point beyond Feverstone. Hingest, who was a physical chemist, was one of the two scientists at Bracton who had a reputation outside England. I hope the reader has not been misled into supposing that the Fellows of Bracton were a specially distinguished body. It was certainly not the intention of the Progressive Element to elect mediocrities to fellowships, but their determination to elect “sound men” cruelly limited their field of choice and, as Busby had once said, “You can’t have everything.” Bill the Blizzard had an old-fashioned curly moustache in which white had almost, but not completely, triumphed over yellow, a large beak-like nose, and a bald head.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said Mark with a hint of formality. He was always a little afraid of Hingest.

“Huh?” grunted Bill. “Eh? Oh, it’s you, Studdock? Didn’t know they’d secured your services here.”

“I was sorry not to see you at the College meeting yesterday,” said Mark.

This was a lie. The Progressive Element always found Hingest’s presence an embarrassment. As a scientist-and the only really eminent scientist they had-he was their rightful property; but he was that hateful anomaly, the wrong sort of scientist. Glossop, who was a classic, was his chief friend in College. He had the air (the “affectation” Curry called it) of not attaching much importance to his own revolutionary discoveries in chemistry and of valuing himself much more on being a Hingest: the family was of almost mythical antiquity, “never contaminated” as its nineteenth century historian had said, “by traitor, placeman or baronetcy.” He had given particular offence on the occasion of de Broglie’s visit to Edgestow. The Frenchman had spent his spare time exclusively in Bill the Blizzard’s society, but when an enthusiastic junior Fellow had thrown out a feeler about the rich feast of science which the two savants must have shared, Bill the Blizzard had appeared to search his memory for a moment and then replied that he didn’t think they had got on to that subject. “Gassing Almanac de Gotha nonsense, I suppose,” was Curry’s comment, though not in Hingest’s presence.

“Eh? What’s that? College meeting?” said the Blizzard. “What were they talking about?”

“About the sale of Bragdon Wood.”

“All nonsense,” muttered the Blizzard.

“I hope you would have agreed with the decision we came to.”

“It made no difference what decision they came to.”

“Oh!” said Mark with some surprise.

“It was all nonsense. The N.I.C.E. would have had the Wood in any case. They had powers to compel a sale.”

“What an extraordinary thing! I was given to understand they were going to Cambridge if we didn’t sell.”

“Not a word of truth in it. As to its being an extraordinary thing, that depends on what you mean. There’s nothing extraordinary in the Fellows of Bracton talking all afternoon about an unreal issue. And there’s nothing extraordinary in the fact that the N.I.C.E. should wish, if possible, to hand over to Bracton the odium of turning the heart of England into a cross between an abortive American hotel and a glorified gas-works. The only real puzzle is why the N.I.C.E. should want that bit of land.”

“I suppose we shall find out as things go on.”

“You may. I shan’t.”

“Oh ? “said Mark interrogatively.

“I’ve had enough of it,” said Hingest, lowering his voice, “I’m leaving to-night. I don’t know what you were doing at Bracton, but if it was any good I’d advise you to go back and stick to it.”

“Really!” said Mark. “Why do you say that?”

“Doesn’t matter for an old fellow like me,” said Hingest, “but they could play the devil with you. Of course it all depends on what a man likes.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Mark, “I haven’t fully made up my mind.” He had been taught to regard Hingest as a warped reactionary. “I don’t even know yet what my job would be if I stayed.”

“What’s your subject?”

“Sociology.”

“Huh!” said Hingest. “In that case I can soon point you out the man you’d be under. A fellow called Steele. Over there by the window, do you see?”

“Perhaps you could introduce me.”

“You’re determined to stay then?”

“Well, I suppose I ought at least to see him.”

“All right,” said Hingest. “No business of mine.” Then he added in a louder voice, “Steele!”

Steele turned round. He was a tall, unsmiling man with that kind of face which, though long and horse-like, has nevertheless rather thick and pouting lips.