“The matter with you, George, is,” his brother, speaking slowly and carefully, replied, “That you haven’t the ghost of an idea of what the modern world’s like—not the ghost. Up in the clouds you are, and so’s your whole family, my sister and all—But the young ones won’t be up in the clouds always, not a bit of it. They’ll come down one day and then you’ll see what you _will_ see.” “And what’ll that be?” said George Trenchard, laughing a little scornfully. “Why you and Harriet doing Darby and Joan over the dying fire and no one else within a hundred miles of you—except a servant who’s waiting for your clothes and sleeve-links.” “There, Henry—Listen to that!” said his father, still laughing—“See what an ungrateful fellow you’re going to be in a year or two!” Henry blushed, swallowed in his throat, smiled idiotically. They were all, he thought, laughing at him, but the effect was very pleasant and genial.... Moreover he was interested. He was, of course, one of the young ones and it was his future that was under discussion. His mind hovered over the book that he had been reading that afternoon. Uncle Tim’s words had very much the same effect upon Henry’s mind that that book’s words had had, although from a different angle so to speak.... Henry’s eyes lingered about a little silver dish that contained sugared cherries.... He liked immensely sugared cherries. Encouraged by the genial atmosphere he stretched out his hand, took two cherries, and swallowed them, but, in his agitation, so swiftly that he did not taste them at all. Then he drank two glasses of Port—he had never before drunk so much wine. He was conscious now that he must not, under any circumstances, drink any more. He was aware that he must control, very closely, his tongue; he told himself that the room was not in reality so golden and glowing a place as it now seemed to him, that it was only the same old dining-room with which he had all his life, been familiar. He convinced himself by a steady gaze that the great silver dish with the red and purple and golden fruit piled upon it _was_ only a silver dish, was not a deep bowl whose sides, like silver walls stretched up right into the dim electric clusters of electric light hanging from the ceiling. He might convince himself of these facts, he might with a great effort steady the room that very, very slightly swayed about him ... what he could not deny was that Life was gorgeous, that this was an Evening of all the Evenings, that he adored his father, his uncle and all the family to such a height and depth of devotion that, were he not exceedingly careful, he would burst into tears—burst into tears he must not because then would the stud in his shirt most assuredly abandon its restraints and shame him, for ever, before Uncle Tim.