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about the body, which he could not help associating with dislocated movements. But it was in the hands that this seemed to accumulate, and it seemed to radiate from them like a hint of some touch that was yet to come, sending a thrill of disgust coursing over Törless's skin. He himself was astonished at the notion, and faintly shocked. For this was now the second time today that something sexual had without warning, and irrelevantly, thrust its way in among his thoughts.
    Beineberg had taken up a newspaper, and now Törless could consider him closely.
    There was in reality scarcely anything to be found in his appearance that could have even remotely justified this sudden association of ideas in Törless's mind.
    And for all that, in spite of the lack of justification for it, his sense of discomfort grew ever more intense. The silence between them had lasted scarcely ten minutes, and yet Törless felt his repugnance gradually increasing to the utmost degree. A fundamental mood, a fundamental relationship between himself and Beineberg, seemed in this way to be manifesting itself for the first time; a mistrust that had always been lurking somewhere in the depths seemed all at once to have loomed up into the realm of conscious feeling.
    The atmosphere became more and more acutely uncomfortable. Törless was invaded by an urge to utter insults, but he could find no adequate words. He was uneasy with a sort of shame, as though something had actually happened between himself and Beineberg. His fingers began to drum restlessly on the table.
    * * *
    Finally, in order to escape from this strange state of mind, he looked out of the window again.
    Now Beineberg glanced up from the newspaper. Then he read a paragraph aloud, laid the paper aside, and yawned.
    With the breaking of the silence the spell that had bound Törless was also broken. Casual words began to flow over the awkward moment, blotting it out. There had been a momentary alertness, but now the old indifference was there again. .
    “How long have we still got?” Törless asked.
    “Two and a half hours.”
    Suddenly shivering, Törless hunched up his shoulders. Once again he felt the paralysing weight of the constriction he was about to re-enter, the school time-table, the daily companionship of his friend. Even that dislike of Beineberg would cease which seemed, for an instant, to have created a new situation.
    What's for supper tonight?”
    “I don't know.”
    “What have we got tomorrow?”
    “Mathematics.”
    “Oh. Was there something to prepare?”
    “Yes. A few new trigonometry theorems. But you needn't worry about them, they're not difficult.”
    “And what else?”
    “Divinity.”
    “Divinity.... Oh, well. That's something to look forward to... . I think when I really get going I could just as easily prove that twice two is five as that there can be only one God. . .
    Beineberg glanced up at Törless mockingly. “It's quite funny how you go on about that. It strikes me almost as if you really enjoyed it. Anyway, there's a positive glare of enthusiasm in your eyes. . .
    “And why not? Don't you think it's fun? There's always a point you get to where you stop knowing whether you're just making it all up or if what you've made up is truer than you are yourself.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well, I don't mean literally, of course. Naturally, you always know you are making it up. But all the same, every now and then the whole thing strikes you as being so credible that you're brought up standing, in a way, in the grip of your own ideas.”
    “Well, but what is it about it you enjoy, then?”
    “Just that: you get a sort of jerk in your head, a sort of dizziness, a shock...”
    “Oh, I say, shut up! That's all foolery.”
    “Well, I didn't say it wasn't. But still, so far as I'm concerned, it's more interesting than anything else at school.”
    “It's just a way of doing gymnastics with your brain. But it doesn't get you anywhere, all the