Everybody turned to look at them as they came in. It was
plain that the study episode had been a topic of conversation.
Spiller's face was crimson, and Robinson's coat-sleeve still bore
traces of garden mould.
Mike felt rather conscious of the eyes, but Psmith was in his element.
His demeanour throughout the meal was that of some whimsical monarch
condescending for a freak to revel with his humble subjects.
Towards the end of the meal Psmith scribbled a note and passed it to
Mike. It read: "Directly this is over, nip upstairs as quickly as you
can."
Mike followed the advice; they were first out of the room. When they
had been in the study a few moments, Jellicoe knocked at the door.
"Lucky you two cut away so quick," he said. "They were going to try
and get you into the senior day-room and scrag you there."
"This," said Psmith, leaning against the mantelpiece, "is exciting,
but it can't go on. We have got for our sins to be in this place for a
whole term, and if we are going to do the Hunted Fawn business all the
time, life in the true sense of the word will become an impossibility.
My nerves are so delicately attuned that the strain would simply reduce
them to hash. We are not prepared to carry on a long campaign--the thing
must be settled at once."
"Shall we go down to the senior day-room, and have it out?" said Mike.
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