Henry said nothing. He brushed his hair again, suffered himself to be dusted and patted by the attendant, and followed Philip into the restaurant. He was so miserable that suicide was the only alternative to a disgraced and dishonoured life. He was sure that everyone in the restaurant was laughing at him; the grave waiter who brought him his soup, the fat, round button of a waiter who brought the champagne in a bucket of ice, the party opposite, two men and two women (beasts!), all these were laughing at him! His forehead was burning, his heart deadly cold. He glared at Philip, gulped down his food without knowing at all what it was that he was eating, said “yes” and “no”; never looked at Philip, but stared, fiercely, round him as though he were looking for someone. Philip persisted, very bravely, in a succession of bright and interesting anecdotes, but at last he flagged. He was afraid that he had a terrible evening before him ... never again.... “He’s thinking,” said Henry to himself, “that I’m impossible. He’s wondering what on earth he asked me for. Why did he if he didn’t want to? Conceited ass ... that about the stud might have happened to anyone. He’ll tell Katherine....” “Coffee?” said Philip. “No, thank you,” said Henry. “All right. We’ll have it later. We’d better be getting on to the show. Ready?” They moved away; they were in a cab; they were caught into the heart of some kaleidoscope. Lights flashed, men shouted, someone cried in a high treble. Lights flashed again, and they were sitting in the stalls at the “Empire” music-hall. Henry hailed the darkness with relief; he felt as though his body were bruised all over, and when he looked up and saw a stout man upside down on a tight-rope he thought to himself: “Well, he can’t see me anyhow.... He doesn’t know that the top of my stud came off.”