“You must—tell them—about my boots,” he said. “It’s absurd.”
“It’s all right,” said Philip. “They’ve put them on again now. It’s time for us to be moving.” He was relieved to see that Henry rose at once and, holding for a moment on to the table, steadied himself. His face, very solemn and sad, with its large, mournful eyes and a lock of hair tumbling forward over his forehead, was both ridiculous and pathetic.
Philip took his arm.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go home.”
Henry followed very meekly, allowed them to put on his coat, was led upstairs and into a “taxi.”
Then he suddenly put his head between his hands and began to sob. He would say nothing, but only sobbed hopelessly.
“It’s all right,” said Philip, as though he were speaking to a child of five. “There’s nothing to cry about. You’ll be home in a moment.” He was desperately annoyed at the misfortune. Why could he not have seen that Henry was drinking too much? But Henry had drunk so little. Then he had had champagne at dinner. He wasn’t used to it. Philip cursed his own stupidity. Now if they made a noise on the way to Henry’s room there might follow fatal consequences. If anyone should see them!
Henry’s sobs had ceased: he seemed to be asleep. Philip shook his arm. “Look here! We must take care not to wake anyone. Here we are! Quietly now, and where’s your key?”
“Wash key?” said Henry.
Philip had a horrible suspicion that Henry had forgotten his key. He searched. Ah! there it was in the waistcoat pocket.