Mike's soul began to tie itself into knots again. He was just at the
age when one is most sensitive to patronage and most resentful of it.

"I promised I would," said the Gazeka, turning round and examining
himself in the mirror again. "You'll get on all right if you behave
yourself. Don't make a frightful row in the house. Don't cheek your
elders and betters. Wash. That's all. Cut along."

Mike had a vague idea of sacrificing his career to the momentary
pleasure of flinging a chair at the head of the house. Overcoming this
feeling, he walked out of the room, and up to his dormitory to change.

* * * * *

In the dormitory that night the feeling of revolt, of wanting to
do something actively illegal, increased. Like Eric, he burned, not
with shame and remorse, but with rage and all that sort of thing.
He dropped off to sleep full of half-formed plans for asserting
himself. He was awakened from a dream in which he was batting against
Firby-Smith's bowling, and hitting it into space every time, by a
slight sound. He opened his eyes, and saw a dark figure silhouetted
against the light of the window. He sat up in bed.

"Hullo," he said. "Is that you, Wyatt?"

"Are you awake?" said Wyatt. "Sorry if I've spoiled your beauty
sleep."

"Are you going out?"