Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [91]
“I see they’ve scratched Rigoletto,” he said to Philip, as soon as they were left alone.
“Have they?” said Philip, who knew nothing about horseracing.
He looked with awe upon Watson’s beautiful clothes. His tail-coat fitted him perfectly, and there was a valuable pin artfully stuck in the middle of an enormous tie. On the chimneypiece 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 having 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 refuse them. It was infernal luck, but he wasn’t going to put up with it long; he was only in this infernal 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 gentleman’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 patronizing 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 and then. All the rest are awful bounders.”
Presently Watson applied himself to some work he had in hand, and Philip set about sorting his letters. Then Mr. Goodworthy came in to say that Mr. Carter had arrived. He took Philip into a large room next door to his own. There was a big desk in it, and a couple of big armchairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with Philip. He was dressed in a long frock-coat. He looked like a military man; his mustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and neat, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman—did Philip hunt? Pity, the sport of gentlemen. Didn’t have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he’d sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he’d like his son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn’t miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting