Of course Henry ought to be sent to one of the Universities, it was absurd to keep a great, hulking boy of nineteen hanging about, wasting his own time and the time of his family, suffering no discipline and learning nothing of any value. George Trenchard had told Philip that Henry was too young for Oxford, and was to have a year of “seeing the world” before he “went up”. A fine lot of seeing the world Henry was doing, slouching about the house, reading novels and sulking! Philip, in spite of his years in Russia, felt very strongly that every Englishman should be shaven clean and wear clothes from a good tailor. About men of other nationalities it did not matter, but smartness was expected from an Englishman. Henry, however, was in that unpleasant condition known as “sprouting.” He had a little down on one cheek, apparently none on the other; in certain lights his chin boasted a few hairs of a forlorn and desolate appearance, in other lights you would swear that there were none. His forehead often broke into pimples (these were a terrible agony to him). “Why can’t he do something with his hair?” thought Philip, “brush it and have it cut regularly. Why is it that awful dusty colour? He might at least do something to his clothes. Mrs. Trenchard ought to see to it.” Mrs. Trenchard did try to “see to it”. She was perpetually buying new clothes for Henry; she took him to her husband’s tailor and dragged him, again and again, to have things “tried on”. Henry, however, possessed the art of reducing any suit, within twenty-four hours of his first wearing it, to chaos. He was puzzled himself to know what he did. “But, Henry, it was new last week!” “_I_ know. How can I help it? I haven’t done anything to the beastly thing. It simply came like that.” He affected a lofty indifference to clothes, but Philip, who saw him look frequently into the looking-glass, suspected the sincerity of this. Katherine said to Philip: “You have so much influence on Henry. Do talk to him about his clothes and other things. He won’t mind it from you. He gets so angry if we say anything.” Philip was not at all sure that Henry would “not mind it from him”. When they were alone Henry would listen with the greatest interest to the things that Philip told him; his eyes would soften, his mouth would smile, his voice would quiver with his excitement. Then, quite suddenly, his face would cloud, he would blush and frown, almost scowl, then, abruptly, with some half-muttered word, fall into a sulky silence. Once he had broken in to Philip’s information with: “Oh! I suppose you think I don’t know anything about it, that I’m a stupid idiot.... Well, if I am, what do you bother to talk to me for?”