After breakfast Henry escaped into the drawing-room; he sank into his favourite chair by the fire, which was burning with a cold and glassy splendour that showed that it had just been lit. The room was foggy, dim and chill, exactly suited to Henry, who, with his thin legs stretched out in front of him and his headache oppressing him with a reiterated emphasis as though it were some other person insisting on his attention, stared before him and tried to think. He wanted to think everything out, but could consider nothing clearly. It was disgusting of him to have been drunk, but it was Philip’s fault—that was his main conclusion. Looking back, everything seemed to be Philip’s fault—even the disaster to himself. There was in Henry a strange puritanical, old-maidish strain, which, under the persuasion of the headache, was allowed full freedom. Philip’s intimacy with those women, Philip’s attitude to drink, to ballets, even to shirt studs, an attitude of indifference bred of long custom, seemed to Henry this morning sinister and most suspicious. Philip had probably been laughing at him all the evening, thought him a fool for getting drunk so easily (terrible idea this), would tell other people about his youth and inexperience. Thoughts like these floated through Henry’s aching head, but he could not really catch them. Everything escaped him. He could only stare into the old mirror, with its reflection of green carpet and green wall-paper, and fancy that he was caught, held prisoner by it, condemned to remain inside it for ever, with an aching head and an irritated conscience. He was ill, he was unhappy, and yet through it all ran the thought: “You are a man now. You have received your freedom. You’ll never be a boy again....” He was aroused from his thoughts by the sudden vision of Katherine, who was, he found, sitting on the elbow of his arm-chair with her hand on his shoulder. “Hullo,” he said, letting her take his hand. “I didn’t hear you come in.” “I didn’t know you were in here,” she answered. “You were hidden by the chair. I was looking for you, though.” “Why?” said Henry, suspiciously. “Oh, nothing—except that I wanted to hear about last night. Did you enjoy it?” “Very much.” “Was Philip nice?” “Very nice.” “What did you do?” “Oh, we dined at Jules, went to the Empire, had supper at the Carlton, and came home.” He looked at Katherine’s eyes, felt that he was a surly brute and added: “The ballet was called ‘The Pirate’. I thought it was fine, but it was the first one I’d seen—I don’t think Philip cared much for it, but then he’s seen so many in Moscow, where they go on all night and are perfectly splendid.” Katherine’s hand pressed his shoulder a little, and he, in response, drew closer to her.