The doctor might have stormed and raged, and done nothing.

As it was, he had talked like a quiet gentleman, and made us all thoroughly ashamed of ourselves.
And yet, as we all of us felt, everything now depended on Tempest.

If he surrendered he might count on us to fall in line and make up to him for all he had sacrificed on our behalf.

If he held out, and refused his chance, we _too_ refused ours and went out with him! If only any one could have brought home to him how much depended on him! Yet who could blame him for finding it impossible to apologise to Jarman, who had persecuted him all the term with a petty rancour which, so far from deserving apology, had to thank Tempest's moderation that it did not receive much rougher treatment than it had?
He might go through the words of apology, but it would be a farce, and Tempest was too honest to be a hypocrite.
There was unwonted quiet in Sharpe's house that afternoon.

Fellows were too eagerly speculating as to the fate in store for them to venture on a riot.