“Oysters?... Must have oysters, Henry.... Then grilled bones ... then we’ll see. Whisky and soda—split soda, waiter, please....” Henry had never eaten oysters before, and he would have drunk his whisky with them had Philip not stopped him. “Never drink whisky with oysters—you’d die—you would really.” Henry did not like oysters very much, but he would have suffered the worst kind of torture rather than say so. The bones came, and the whisky with them. Henry drank his first glass very quickly in order to show that he was quite used to it. He thought, as he looked across the table, that Philip was the finest fellow in the world; no one had ever been so kind to him as Philip—How could he ever have disliked Philip? Philip was going to marry Katherine, and was the only man in all the world who was worthy of her. Henry felt a burning desire to confide in Philip, to tell him all his most secret thoughts, his ambitions, his troubles.... He drank his second glass of whisky, and began a long, rather stumbling narration. “You know, I shall never be able to tell you how grateful I am to you for giving me such a ripping evening. All this time ... I’ve been very rude sometimes, I expect ... you must have thought me a dreadful ass, and I’ve wanted so much to show you that I’m not.” “That’s all right,” said Philip, who was thinking of Katherine. “No, it isn’t all right,” said Henry, striking the table with his fist. “I must tell you, now that you’ve been so kind to me. You see I’m shy really, I wouldn’t like most people to know that, but I am. I’m shy because I’m so unfortunate about little things. You must have noticed long ago how unlucky I am. Nothing ever goes right with me at home. I’m always untidy and my clothes go to pieces and I break things. People seem to think I want to ...” His voice was fierce for a moment. “That’s all right,” said Philip again. “Have some more bone.” “Yes, thank you,” said Henry, staring darkly in front of him. “I don’t know why I’m so unfortunate, because I know I _could_ do things if I were given a chance, but no one will ever let me try. What do they keep me at home for when I ought to be at Oxford? Why don’t they settle what I’m going to be? It’s quite time for them to make up their mind.... It’s a shame, a shame....” “So it is. So it is,” said Philip. “But it will be all right if you wait a bit.” “I’m always told I’ve got to wait,” said Henry fiercely. “What about other fellows? No one tells them to wait.... I’m nineteen, and there are plenty of men of nineteen I know who are doing all kinds of things. I can’t even dress properly—soot and fluff always come and settle on _my_ clothes rather than on anyone else’s. I’ve often noticed it. Then people laugh at me for nothing. They don’t laugh at other men.” “You oughtn’t to care,” said Philip. “I try not to, but you can’t help it if it happens often.” “What do you want to be?” said Philip. “What would you like to do?”