Paul had left a note asking Strether to breakfast, and he rather wondered if, after the previous day's rag, his friend would come. But he came. To mark the occasion, Paul had fish and an omelette sent up from the kitchens, and over these burnt sacrifices he made his apology. "Look here, Gussie," he said, "I'm sorry that rag ended as it did. I had no idea the others had arranged it with old Sam like that, and I couldn't help Donaldson kicking up all that row on the stairs. That was beastly, I admit. I'm awfully sorry. Hope it won't make any difference to our friendship." Strether growled in his throat. "Who bagged my boots?" he demanded, with a sense of humour. Paul laughed. "Let's rag Donaldson somehow," he suggested, "and I'll give them back." Strether smiled. Then frowned. "Always talking about girls," he muttered. Then, dropping the subject for good and all, "Come to _The Mikado_ this week," he invited. "I've never been to the theatre," said Paul frankly. The other nodded slowly in his meditative fashion. "So?" he queried. "Yes," said Paul. "My people are against it. They say the stage is immoral. I don't know...." "Then so are newspapers," said Strether, "and so's Cambridge too for the matter of that." "That's different," objected Paul. Strether laid down his knife and fork. "Going to the P.M., Sunday?" he queried. "Yes, I expect so," said Paul. "Why?" "I'll come with you, if you'll come with me to _The Mikado_. I've never been to a P.M. My people say prayer meetings make religion too emotional." Paul got up dubiously. He looked out of the window. After all, there were, it seemed, many points of view in the world. Ought he to see none other than his father's? And besides, if this would get Gus Strether to a prayer meeting ... "I'll go," he said. "I see that it is certainly foolish to condemn a thing you haven't seen." That night, over his fire in his own beloved room, he got out a secret and personal diary which an evangelical missioner had urged him to keep, and sat thoughtfully over it, pencil in hand. Then he wrote slowly: "Nov. 13. I have decided to go to a theatre, since it is obviously unfair to condemn anything unseen. I wish to be sure of the spirit in which I go and for what I ought to look. Therefore I shall ask myself afterwards three questions, and I write these down now to make certain that I do not forget: 1. If Christ came while I was there, should I mind? 2. Do I see anything bad in this play? 3. Has it helped my Christian life?" Years later he turned up his old answers, written late on the Wednesday night of the play, and smiled at their amazing and yet serious youthfulness. "1. I should mind Christ's advent while I was in the theatre no more than I should mind His coming while I was laughing over a humorous novel," so ran the first answer.