When Philip asked Henry himself, Henry coloured crimson, looked at his boots, muttered something about shirts, stammered “Thanks ... very glad ... awful bore for you”, and finally stumbled from the room.
Philip thought Jules for dinner, The Empire, The Carlton for supper. Katherine’s delight when he told her compensated him for all the effort of the undertaking.
To understand Henry’s emotion at Philip’s invitation would be to understand everything about Henry, and that no one has ever done. His chief sensation was one of delight and excitement—this he hid from all the world. He had waited, during more years than he could remember, for the arrival of that moment when he would be treated as a man. Lately he had said to himself, “If they’re all going to laugh at me always, I’ll show them one day soon.” He had a ferocious disgust at their lack of penetration. He had, from the very first, admired Philip’s appearance. Here was a man still young, with perfect clothes, perfect ability to get in and out of a room easily, perfect tranquillity in conversation. He had been offended at Philip’s treatment of Seymour, but even that had been a bold, daring thing to do, and Henry was forced to admit that he had been, since that episode, himself sometimes doubtful of Seymour’s ability. Then Philip in his conversation had shown such knowledge of the world; Henry could listen all day to his talk about Russia. To be able to travel so easily from one country to the other, without fear or hesitation, that was, indeed, wonderful!
Afterwards had occurred one of the critical moments in Henry’s career; his passionate memory of that afternoon when he had seen the embrace of Katherine and Philip, changed those two into miraculous beings, apart from all the world. He heard Philip for the audacity of it, he also admired him, envied him, speculated endlessly about it. “Ah! if somebody would love me like that”, he thought. “I’d be just as fine. They think me a baby, not fit even to go to college, I could—I could ...” He did not know what it was that he could do. Perhaps Philip would help him.
And yet he did not really like Philip. He thought that Philip laughed at him, despised him. His one continual fear was lest Philip should teach Katherine, Henry’s adored and worshipped Katherine, also to despise him. “If he were to do that I’d kill him”, he thought. He believed utterly in Katherine’s loyalty, “but she loves Philip so now. It’s changed her. She’ll never belong to us properly again.” Always his first thought was: “So long as he’s good to her and makes her happy nothing matters.”
Now it seemed that Philip was making her happy. Katherine’s happiness lit, with its glow, the house, the family, all the world. When, therefore, Philip asked Henry to dine with him, the great moment of Henry’s life seemed to have come, and to have come from a source honourable enough for Henry to accept it.
“If only I dare,” Henry thought, “there are so many things that I should like to ask him.” The remembered passion of that kiss told Henry that there could be nothing that Philip did not know. He was in a ferment of excitement and expectation. To the family he said:
“I’m afraid I shan’t be in, Tuesday evening. Sorry, but Philip and I are dining together. Expect I’ll be in, Wednesday, though.”
It is a fact, strange but true, that Henry had never entered one of the bigger London restaurants. The Trenchards were not among those more modern parents who spend their lives in restaurants and take their infant sons in Eton jackets to supper at the Savoy after the Drury Lane pantomime. Moreover, no one ever thought of taking Henry anywhere. He had been at school until a few months ago, and when, in the holidays, he had gone to children’s parties he had always behaved badly. George Trenchard went very seldom into restaurants, and often, for days together, forgot that he had a son at all. Down in Glebeshire Henry was allowed to roam as he pleased; even in London no restrictions were placed on his movements. So long as he went to the Abbey twice on Sunday he could do what he liked. A friend of Seymour’s had put him up as a member of a club in a little street off St. James: the entrance was only a guinea, and “anyone could be a member”. Henry had, three months ago, received a book of club rules, a list of members, and a printed letter informing him that he was now elected, must pay five guineas entrance and a guinea subscription. He had extorted the money from his father, and, for twenty-four hours, was the proudest and happiest human being in London. He had never, alas! dared to venture inside the building. Seymour’s friend had forgotten him. The Club had remained strangely ignorant of his existence. On three occasions he had started out, and on three occasions his fears had been too strong for him. Once he had arrived at the very club door, but a stout gentleman, emerging and staring at him haughtily, had driven the blood from his heart. He had hurried home, feeling that he had been personally insulted. He found, on his return, that some vehicle had splashed mud on to his cheek. “There! you see what happens!...”
He was not far from tears.