“Me?” he asked, wondering uneasily what he was wanted for. “Yes, you!” said the boy who had delivered the message. “You’re Glynde, aren’t you?” Adrian with beating heart approached the sacred door, opened it, and went nervously in. For the first time he beheld that sanctuary, with its battered armchairs, its two long tables, and ancient benches, the great glasspanelled bookcase that contained the house library, and the exalted persons of the upper school taking their ease in the chairs and on the benches. He stood with his back to the door, his hand on the door-knob behind him, timidly waiting. For a moment it seemed to him that immense numbers of eyes were staring at him, but no one spoke. He was conscious of Ronny Dakyn sitting at the far end of one of the tables diligently writing. Adrian could see nothing of him but his bright golden head bent over two black arms. Waiting there, he felt horribly embarrassed. Coulter, the head prefect, glanced round the room. “Who sent for this fag?”
