the Warden and were engaged in the attempted recapture of the fugitive spectacles belonging to their Dutch guest, who, although seated and quite safe where he was, had stretched out his arms the moment he lost his glasses (thus knocking over the few objects left upright in his part of the table) as if he feared he might stumble at any moment, like a blind man who's had his stick snatched from him; Dayanand, also a member of the college and a man of strong character, was one of the few present who could have put a stop to the Warden's banging, but the fact is that, whilst he made his feelings perfectly plain, he restricted himself to throwing the Warden lethal looks and flexing his fingers menacingly ("This Indian doctor will make him pay for this even if he has to wait another ten years to do so," I thought, "he's definitely not a man to be trifled with"); the luminary Atwater and the economist Halliwell had finally ceased their verbiage and the mere fact of being quiet seemed to have a more disconcerting effect on them than the Warden's pounding, which they'd probably not even noticed until that moment of clamorous silence; I've already described the quivering harpy, and as for Cromer-Blake, his face remained an enigma: rubbing his waxen chin, he seemed simply to be waiting with just the suggestion of a smile (that of a man on the point of bursting out laughing or perhaps of one storing up his wrath) as if, all too familiar with the Warden's habits, he already knew that the minute would last just that, a minute. The other four guests, including Edward Bayes seated to the left at the opposite end of the table, were concealed from view. But, after all this time and taking considerably longer than the original sixty seconds, I notice that in making that tour of the table then and now (from this city of Madrid to which I'm now returned), I've quite deliberately omitted any further mention of Clare.
In fact one might say that during that one minute nobody really noticed — I mean, really looked at - the Warden: some guests threw him occasional stealthy, apprehensive glances but did not, as I've explained, actually see him; others were too concerned with maintaining some semblance of composure and with struggling to prevent the bottles, spectacles and stray wineglasses shaken by the gavel blows from rolling on to the floor; a third faction took advantage of the moment to exchange looks or, which comes to the same thing, to look directly at each other, their eyes for once unveiled. The first group included the harpy, the author of horror novels Kavanagh, the luminary of the social sciences Atwater, the cider economist Halliwell, the last two, as college members, hesitating perhaps (although only slightly) over whether to intervene and disarm the Warden or just to sit back and let someone else run the risk of being pounded to a pulp for their boldness, or more likely - later on - being avenged for it. The second group included the literary scholar or by then (almost) Professor Emeritus Toby Rylands, the scientists Brownjohn and Willis, the bewigged Dr Wetenhall and the hideous mineralogist still plunged into darkness. And amongst the third group, as far as I could ascertain during the final seconds of that minute, were Dayanand and Cromer-Blake, Clare Bayes and myself and possibly, or rather certainly, her husband. The attenuated gaze (merely distrustful or severe) that Dayanand had directed at me from time to time throughout the meal and that he now directed in its full intensity at the Warden was suddenly turned, unchanged, on his friend Cromer-Blake: that is, Dayanand, still flexing his fingers in the gesture of an exasperated man barely able to contain himself, cast Cromer-Blake one of those looks I earlier termed "lethal", and Cromer-Blake, feeling the Indian doctor's burning gaze upon him, in turn raised his eyes to meet it and, although I could not see very well, since I had a side view and could therefore see only his right
In fact one might say that during that one minute nobody really noticed — I mean, really looked at - the Warden: some guests threw him occasional stealthy, apprehensive glances but did not, as I've explained, actually see him; others were too concerned with maintaining some semblance of composure and with struggling to prevent the bottles, spectacles and stray wineglasses shaken by the gavel blows from rolling on to the floor; a third faction took advantage of the moment to exchange looks or, which comes to the same thing, to look directly at each other, their eyes for once unveiled. The first group included the harpy, the author of horror novels Kavanagh, the luminary of the social sciences Atwater, the cider economist Halliwell, the last two, as college members, hesitating perhaps (although only slightly) over whether to intervene and disarm the Warden or just to sit back and let someone else run the risk of being pounded to a pulp for their boldness, or more likely - later on - being avenged for it. The second group included the literary scholar or by then (almost) Professor Emeritus Toby Rylands, the scientists Brownjohn and Willis, the bewigged Dr Wetenhall and the hideous mineralogist still plunged into darkness. And amongst the third group, as far as I could ascertain during the final seconds of that minute, were Dayanand and Cromer-Blake, Clare Bayes and myself and possibly, or rather certainly, her husband. The attenuated gaze (merely distrustful or severe) that Dayanand had directed at me from time to time throughout the meal and that he now directed in its full intensity at the Warden was suddenly turned, unchanged, on his friend Cromer-Blake: that is, Dayanand, still flexing his fingers in the gesture of an exasperated man barely able to contain himself, cast Cromer-Blake one of those looks I earlier termed "lethal", and Cromer-Blake, feeling the Indian doctor's burning gaze upon him, in turn raised his eyes to meet it and, although I could not see very well, since I had a side view and could therefore see only his right
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