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the chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy and bell-
shaped and shiny. Philip felt himself very shabby. Watson
began to talk of hunting—it was such an infernal bore hav-
ing to waste one’s time in an infernal office, he would only
be able to hunt on Saturdays—and shooting: he had ripping
invitations all over the country and of course he had to re-
fuse them. It was infernal luck, but he wasn’t going to put up
with it long; he was only in this internal hole for a year, and
then he was going into the business, and he would hunt four
days a week and get all the shooting there was.
‘You’ve got five years of it, haven’t you?’ he said, waving
his arm round the tiny room.
‘I suppose so,’ said Philip.
‘I daresay I shall see something of you. Carter does our
accounts, you know.’
Philip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentle-
man’s condescension. At Blackstable they had always looked
upon brewing with civil contempt, the Vicar made little
jokes about the beerage, and it was a surprising experience
for Philip to discover that Watson was such an important
and magnificent fellow. He had been to Winchester and to
Oxford, and his conversation impressed the fact upon one
with frequency. When he discovered the details of Philip’s
education his manner became more patronising still.
‘Of course, if one doesn’t go to a public school those sort
of schools are the next best thing, aren’t they?’
Philip asked about the other men in the office.
‘Oh, I don’t bother about them much, you know,’ said
Watson. ‘Carter’s not a bad sort. We have him to dine now