The lights went up—ten minutes’ interval—whilst the band played tunes out of “Riogletta”, and behind the curtain they prepared for that immensely popular ballet “The Pirate”.
“Let’s walk about a bit, shall we?” said Philip.
Henry, humbly, with a timid smile agreed. He tumbled over a lady as he passed out of his row, but he did not mind now, his eyes were shining and his head was up. He followed Philip, admiring his broad shoulders, the back of his head, his sturdy carriage and defiant movement of his body. He glared haughtily at young men lolling over the bar, and the young men glared back haughtily at him. He followed Philip upstairs, and they turned into the Promenade (Henry did not know that it was the Promenade). With his head in the air he stepped forward and plunged instantly into something that flung powder down his throat, a strange and acrid scent up his nose: his fingers scraped against silk.
“There! clumsy!” said a voice.
A lady wearing a large hat and (as it appeared to Henry) tissue of gold, smiled at him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, putting some fat fingers on his hand for a moment. “It doesn’t, dear, really. Hot, isn’t it?”
He was utterly at a loss, scarlet in the face, his eyes staring wildly. Philip had come to his rescue.
“Hot, it is,” said Philip.
“What about a drink, dear?” said the lady.
“Not just now,” said Philip, smiling at her as though he’d known her all his life. “Jolly good scrum up here, isn’t there?”