When Henry woke in the morning his headache was very different from any headache that he had ever endured before. His first thought was that he could never possibly get up, but would lie there all day. His second that, whatever he did, he must rouse suspicion in no one, his third that he really _had_ been terribly drunk last night, and remembered nothing after his second whisky at the Carlton, his fourth that someone must have put him to bed last night, because his clothes were folded carefully, whereas it was his own custom always to fling them about the room. At this moment Rocket (who always took upon himself the rousing of Henry) entered with hot water. “Time to get up, sir,” he said. “Breakfast-bell in twenty minutes. Bath quite ready.” Henry watched. “He’ll suspect something when he sees those clothes,” he thought. But Rocket, apparently, suspected nothing. Henry got up, had his bath and slowly dressed. His headache was quite horrible, being a cold headache with a heavy weight of pain on his skull and a taste in his mouth of mustard and bad eggs. He felt that he could not possibly disguise from the world that he was unwell. Looking in the glass he saw that his complexion was yellow and muddy, but then it was never, at any time, very splendid. He looked cross and sulky, but then that would not surprise anyone. He went downstairs and passed successfully through the ordeal: fortunately Aunt Aggie was in bed. Only Millie, laughing, said to him: “You don’t look as though evenings with Philip suited you, Henry—” (How he hated Millie when she teased him!) “Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Trenchard placidly, “there must be thunder about—thunder about. I always feel it in my back. George dear, do put that paper down, your tea’s quite cold.” “Well,” said George Trenchard, looking up from the ‘Morning Post’ and beaming upon everyone, “what did Philip do with you last night, Henry. Show you the town—eh?” “We had a very pleasant evening, thank you, father,” said Henry. “We went to the Empire.” “You came in very quietly. I didn’t hear you. Did you hear him, Harriet?” “No,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “I do hope you locked the front door, Henry.” “Oh, yes, mother. That was all right,” he said hurriedly. “Well, dear, I’m very glad you had a pleasant evening. It was kind of Philip—very kind of Philip. Yes, that’s Aunt Aggie’s tray, Katie dear. I should put a little more marmalade—and that bit of toast, the other’s rather dry—yes, the other’s rather dry. Poor Aggie says she had a disturbed night—slept very badly. I shouldn’t wonder whether it’s the thunder. I always know by my back. Thank you, Katie. Here’s a letter from Rose Faunder, George, and she says, ‘etc., etc.’”