Henry watched. “He’ll suspect something when he sees those clothes,” he thought. But Rocket, apparently, suspected nothing. Henry got up, had his bath and slowly dressed. His headache was quite horrible, being a cold headache with a heavy weight of pain on his skull and a taste in his mouth of mustard and bad eggs. He felt that he could not possibly disguise from the world that he was unwell. Looking in the glass he saw that his complexion was yellow and muddy, but then it was never, at any time, very splendid. He looked cross and sulky, but then that would not surprise anyone. He went downstairs and passed successfully through the ordeal: fortunately Aunt Aggie was in bed. Only Millie, laughing, said to him: “You don’t look as though evenings with Philip suited you, Henry—”
(How he hated Millie when she teased him!)
“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Trenchard placidly, “there must be thunder about—thunder about. I always feel it in my back. George dear, do put that paper down, your tea’s quite cold.”
“Well,” said George Trenchard, looking up from the ‘Morning Post’ and beaming upon everyone, “what did Philip do with you last night, Henry. Show you the town—eh?”
“We had a very pleasant evening, thank you, father,” said Henry. “We went to the Empire.”
“You came in very quietly. I didn’t hear you. Did you hear him, Harriet?”
“No,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “I do hope you locked the front door, Henry.”
“Oh, yes, mother. That was all right,” he said hurriedly.
“Well, dear, I’m very glad you had a pleasant evening. It was kind of Philip—very kind of Philip. Yes, that’s Aunt Aggie’s tray, Katie dear. I should put a little more marmalade—and that bit of toast, the other’s rather dry—yes, the other’s rather dry. Poor Aggie says she had a disturbed night—slept very badly. I shouldn’t wonder whether it’s the thunder. I always know by my back. Thank you, Katie. Here’s a letter from Rose Faunder, George, and she says, ‘etc., etc.’ ”
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.