There followed then a number of incredible people. (It must be remembered that he had never been to a music-hall before.) There was a man with two black eyes and a red nose who sang a song about the wives he had had (seven verses—one wife to every verse), there was a stout lady who sang about porter, and there were two small children who danced the Tango—finally a gentleman in evening dress and a large white button-hole who recited poems whilst his friends in the background arranged themselves in illustrative groups. In this strange world Henry’s soul gradually found peace. It was a world, after all, in which it was not absurd to grope on one’s knees for the top of one’s stud—it was the natural and clever thing to do. When the lady who sang about the porter kissed her hand to the audience, Henry, clapping enthusiastically, felt a throb of sympathy. “I’m so glad she’s been a success to-night,” he thought to himself, as though she had been his cousin or his aunt. “She’ll feel pleased.” He wanted, by this time, everyone to be happy.... When, at the last, the fat man in evening clothes recited his tale of “the good old British Flag,” and was surrounded instantly by a fluttering cloud of Union Jacks, Henry was very near to tears. “I’ll make them send me to Oxford,” he said to himself. “At once ... I’ll work like anything.” The lights went up—ten minutes’ interval—whilst the band played tunes out of “Riogletta”, and behind the curtain they prepared for that immensely popular ballet “The Pirate”. “Let’s walk about a bit, shall we?” said Philip. Henry, humbly, with a timid smile agreed. He tumbled over a lady as he passed out of his row, but he did not mind now, his eyes were shining and his head was up. He followed Philip, admiring his broad shoulders, the back of his head, his sturdy carriage and defiant movement of his body. He glared haughtily at young men lolling over the bar, and the young men glared back haughtily at him. He followed Philip upstairs, and they turned into the Promenade (Henry did not know that it was the Promenade). With his head in the air he stepped forward and plunged instantly into something that flung powder down his throat, a strange and acrid scent up his nose: his fingers scraped against silk. “There! clumsy!” said a voice. A lady wearing a large hat and (as it appeared to Henry) tissue of gold, smiled at him. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, putting some fat fingers on his hand for a moment. “It doesn’t, dear, really. Hot, isn’t it?” He was utterly at a loss, scarlet in the face, his eyes staring wildly. Philip had come to his rescue. “Hot, it is,” said Philip. “What about a drink, dear?” said the lady. “Not just now,” said Philip, smiling at her as though he’d known her all his life. “Jolly good scrum up here, isn’t there?” “Everyone bangin’ about so,” said the lady. “What about a drink _now_? Rot waitin’.”