APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/human_bond/CHAP51_75

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CHAPTER LI

TWO months passed.

It seemed to Philip, brooding over these matters, that in the
true painters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove
them to such complete absorption in their work as to make it
inevitable for them to subordinate life to art. Succumbing to an
influence they never realised, they were merely dupes of the
instinct that possessed them, and life slipped through their
fingers unlived. But he had a feeling that life was to be lived
rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the various
experiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion
that it offered. He made up his mind at length to take a certain
step and abide by the result, and, having made up his mind, he
determined to take the step at once. Luckily enough the next
morning was one of Foinet's days, and he resolved to ask him
point-blank whether it was worth his while to go on with the
study of art. He had never forgotten the master's brutal advice
to Fanny Price. It had been sound. Philip could never get Fanny
entirely out of his head. The studio seemed strange without her,
and now and then the gesture of one of the women working there
or the tone of a voice would give him a sudden start, reminding
him of her: her presence was more noticuble now she was dead
than it had ever been during her life; and he often dreamed of
her at night, waking with a cry of terror. it was horrible to
think of all the suffering she must have endured.

Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he
lunched at a little restaurant in the Rue d'Odessa, and he
hurried his own meal so that he could go and wait outside till
the painter came out. Philip walked up and down the crowded
street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with bent head,
towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to
go up to him.

"_Pardon, monsieur_, I should like to speak to you for one
moment."

Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not
smile a greeting.

"Speak," he said.

"I've been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted
to ask you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me
to continue."

Philip's voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without
looking up. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of
expression upon it.

"I don't understand."

"I'm very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something
else."

"Don't you know if you have talent?"

"All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of
them are mistaken."

Foinet's bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he
asked:

"Do you live near here?"

Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round.

"Let us go there? You shall show me your work."

"Now?" cried Philip.

"Why not?"

Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master's
side. He felt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet
would wish to see his things there and then; he meant, so that
he might have time to prepare himself, to ask him if he would
mind coming at some future date or whether he might bring them
to Foinet's studio. He was trembling with anxiety. In his heart
he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare
smile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip's hand
and say: "_Pas mal_. Go on, my lad. You have talent, real
talent." Philip's heart swelled at the thought. It was such a
relief, such a joy! Now he could go on with courage; and what
did hardship matter, privation, and disappointment, if he
arrived at last? He had worked very hard, it would be too cruel
if all that industry were futile. And then with a start he
remembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that. They
arrived at the house, and Philip was seized with fear. If he had
dared he would have asked Foinet to go away. He did not want to
know the truth. They went in and the _concierge_ handed him a
letter as they passed. He glanced at the envelope and recognised
his uncle's handwriting. Foinet followed him up the stairs.
Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the
silence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip
without a word placed before him the picture which the Salon had
rejected; Foinet nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed
him the two portraits he had made of Ruth Chalice, two or three
landscapes which he had painted at Moret, and a number of
sketches.

"That's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh.

Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.

"You have very little private means?" he asked at last.

"Very little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at
his heart. "Not enough to live on."

"There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about
one's means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the
people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is
like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use
of the other five. Without an adequate income half the
possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful
about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the
shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the
best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in
their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. it exposes
you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into
your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just
enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be
generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the
artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent
for subsistence upon his art."

Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown.

"I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much
chance."

Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and
perseverance there is no reason why you should not become a
careful, not incompetent painter. You would find hundreds who
painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well. I see no
talent in anything you have shown me. I see industry and
intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre."

Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily.

"I'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I
can't thank you enough."

Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his
mind and, stopping, put his hand on Philip's shoulder.

"But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your
courage in both hands and try your luck at something else. It
sounds very hard, but let me tell you this: I would give all I
have in the world if someone had given me that advice when I was
your age and I had taken it."

Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his
lips into a smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.

"It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too
late. It does not improve the temper."

He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly
walked out of the room.

Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight
of his handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who
always wrote to him. She had been ill for the last three months,
and he had offered to go over to England and see her; but she,
fearing it would interfere with his work, had refused. She did
not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she said she would
wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay at
the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew
worse she would let him know, since she did not wish to die
without seeing him again. If his uncle wrote to him it must be
because she was too ill to hold a pen. Philip opened the letter.
it ran as follows:

My dear Philip,

I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life
early this morning. She died very suddenly, but quite
peacefully. The change for the worse was so rapid that we had no
time to send for you. She was fully prepared for the end and
entered into rest with the complete assurance of a blessed
resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our
blessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be
present at the funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you
can. There is naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my
shoulders and I am very much upset. I trust that you will be
able to do everything for me.
                          Your affectionate uncle,
                                                    William
Carey.


CHAPTER LII

NEXT day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his
mother he had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his
aunt's death shocked him and filled him also with a curious
fear; he felt for the first time his own mortality. He could not
realise what life would be for his uncle without the constant
companionship of the woman who had loved and tended him for
forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless
grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say
nothing which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number
of apposite speeches.

He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the
dining-room. Uncle William was reading the paper.

"Your train was late," he said, looking up.

Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the
matter-of-fact reception startled him. His uncle, subdued but
calm, handed him the paper.

"There's a very nice little paragraph about her in _The
Blackstable Times_," he said.

Philip read it mechanically.

"Would you like to come up and see her?"

Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was
lying in the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round
her.

"Would you like to say a short prayer?" said the Vicar.

He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip
followed his example. He looked at the little shrivelled face.
He was only conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a
minute Mr. Carey gave a cough, and stood up. He pointed to a
wreath at the foot of the bed.

"That's from the Squire," he said. He spoke in a low voice as
though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he
found himself quite at home. "I expect tea is ready."

They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave
a lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at
which his wife had always sat and poured out the tea with
ceremony. Philip could not help feeling that neither of them
should have been able to eat anything, but when he saw that his
uncle's appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his usual
heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself
to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was
decent.

"Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate," said
the Vicar presently. "In my young days the moumers used always
to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for
their hats. Poor Louisa used to make the silk into dresses. She
always said that twelve funerals gave her a new dress."

Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four
of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at
Feme, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many
more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven
o'clock from the vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson
easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson.

"I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would
never let anyone else bury her."

Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a
second piece of cake. Under the circumstances he could not help
thinking it greedy.

"Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I'm afraid no one else
will make such good ones."

"She's not going?" cried Philip, with astonishment.

Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember.
She never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of
sending him a trifle, absurd but touching. He had a real
affection for her.

"Yes," answered Mr. Carey. "I didn't think it would do to have
a single woman in the house."

"But, good heavens, she must be over forty."

"Yes, I think she is. But she's been rather troublesome lately,
she's been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought
this was a very good opportunity to give her notice."

"It's certainly one which isn't likely to recur," said Philip.

He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from
lighting it.

"Not till after the funeral, Philip," he said gently.

"All right," said Philip.

"It wouldn't be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long
as your poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs."


Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back
to dinner at the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been
drawn up, and Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation
of relief. The body in the house had made him uncomfortable: in
life the poor woman had been all that was kind and gentle; and
yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, cold and stark, it
seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful
influence. The thought horrified Philip.

He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room
with the churchwarden.

"I hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while," he
said. "I don't think he ought to be left alone just yet."

"I haven't made any plans," answered Philip. "if he wants me I
shall be very pleased to stay."

By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during
dinner talked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly
destroyed the Wesleyan chapel.

"I hear they weren't insured," he said, with a little smile.

"That won't make any difference," said the Vicar. "They'll get
as much money as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always
ready to give money."

"I see that Holden sent a wreath."

Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ's
sake who died for both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the
street, he did not speak to him.

"I think it was very pushing," he remarked. "There were
forty-one wreaths. Yours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it
very much."

"Don't mention it," said the banker.

He had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than
anyone's else. it had looked very well. They began to discuss
the people who attended the funeral. Shops had been closed for
it, and the churchwarden took out of his pocket the notice which
had been printed: _Owing to the funeral of Mrs. Carey this
establishment will not be opened till one o'clock_."

"It was my idea," he said.

"I think it was very nice of them to close," said the Vicar.
"Poor Louisa would have appreciated that."

Philip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday,
and they had roast chicken and a gooseberry tart.

"I suppose you haven't thought about a tombstone yet?" said the
churchwarden.

"Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was
always against ostentation."

"I don't think one can do much better than a cross. If you're
thinking of a text, what do you say to: _With Christ, which is
far better?_"

The Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and
settle everything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed
to cast an aspersion on himself.

"I don't think I should put that. I much prefer: _The Lord has
given and the Lord has taken away_."

"Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent."

The Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in
a tone which the widower thought too authoritative for the
occasion. Things were going rather far if he could not choose
his own text for his own wife's tombstone. There was a pause,
and then the conversation drifted to parish matters. Philip went
into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench, and
suddenly began to laugh hysterically.


A few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would
spend the next few weeks at Blackstable.

"Yes, that will suit me very well," said Philip.

"I suppose it'll do if you go back to Paris in September."

Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to
him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak
of the future. There would be something fine in giving up art
because he was convinced that he could not excel; but
unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it
would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess
that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the
suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him
inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding
precisely in that direction. He could not bear that his friends
should laugh at him. This might have prevented him from ever
taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting,
but the different environment made him on a sudden see things
differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the
Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly
futile. The life which had been so charming that he could not
bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste
for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the
shabby way in which they all lived. He did not care any more
what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his rhetoric,
Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her
affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a
revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to
send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he
unpacked his Canvases he found himself able to examine his work
without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest. His uncle
was anxious to see his pictures. Though he had so greatly
disapproved of Philip's desire to go to Paris, he accepted the
situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of
students and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in
fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when
people were present made attempts to draw him out. He looked
eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him. Philip
set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria.

"Why did you paint him?" asked Mr. Carey.

"Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me."

"As you haven't got anything to do here I wonder you don't paint
me."

"It would bore you to sit."

"I think I should like it."

"We must see about it."

Philip was amused at his uncle's vanity. It was clear that he
was dying to have his portrait painted. To get something for
nothing was a chance not to be missed. For two or three days he
threw out little hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked
him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling
everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him. At last
there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to
Philip:

"Now, what d'you say to starting on my portrait this morning?"
Philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his
chair.

"I've given up painting," he said.

"Why?" asked his uncle in astonishment.

"I don't think there's much object in being a second-rate
painter, and I came to the conclusion that I should never be
anything else."

"You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite
certain that you were a genius."

"I was mistaken," said Philip.

"I should have thought now you'd taken up a profession you'd
have the pride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack
is perseverance."

Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how
truly heroic his determination was.

"'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'" proceeded the clergyman.
Philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him
perfectly meaningless. His uncle had repeated it often during
the arguments which had preceded his departure from business.
Apparently it recalled that occasion to his guardian.

"You're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of
settling down. First you insist on becoming a chartered
accountant, and then you get tired of that and you want to
become a painter. And now if you please you change your mind
again. It points to..."

He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character
exactly it indicated, and Philip finished the sentence.

"Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of
determination."

The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was
laughing at him. Philip's face was serious, but there was a
twinkle in his eyes which irritated him. Philip should really be
getting more serious. He felt it right to give him a rap over
the knuckles.

"Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You're your
own master; but I think you should remember that your money
won't last for ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't
exactly make it easier for you to earn your living."

Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his
first thought was to say something about his club-foot. His
estimate of the human race was determined by the fact that
scarcely anyone failed to resist the temptation. But he had
trained himself not to show any sign that the reminder wounded
him. He had even acquired control over the blushing which in his
boyhood had been one of his torments.

"As you justly remark," he answered, "my money matters have
nothing to do with you and I am my own master."

"At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I
was justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to
become an art-student."

"I don't know so much about that. I daresay one profits more by
the mistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the right
thing on somebody's else advice. I've had my fling, and I don't
mind settling down now."

"What at?"

Philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had
not made up his mind. He had thought of a dozen callings.

"The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father's
profession and become a doctor."

"Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend."

He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because
it was an occupation which seemed to give a good deal of
personal freedom, and his experience of life in an office had
made him determine never to have anything more to do with one;
his answer to the Vicar slipped out almost unawares, because it
was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to make up his
mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to
enter his father's old hospital in the autumn.

"Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted
time?"

"I don't know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I
learned one or two useful things."

"What?"

Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid
of a gentle desire to annoy.

"I learned to look at hands, which I'd never looked at before.
And instead of just looking at houses and trees I learned to
look at houses and trees against the sky. And I learned also
that shadows are not black but coloured."

"I suppose you think you're very clever. I think your flippancy
is quite inane."


CHAPTER LIII

TAKING the paper with him Mr. Carey retired to his study. Philip
changed his chair for that in which his uncle had been sitting
(it was the only comfortable one in the room), and looked out of
the window at the pouring rain. Even in that sad weather there
was something restful about the green fields that stretched to
the horizon. There was an intimate charm in the landscape which
he did not remember ever to have noticed before. Two years in
France had opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside.

He thought with a smile of his uncle's remark. It was lucky that
the turn of his mind tended to flippancy. He had begun to
realise what a great loss he had sustained in the death of his
father and mother. That was one of the differences in his life
which prevented him from seeing things in the same way as other
people. The love of parents for their children is the only
emotion which is quite disinterested. Among strangers he had
grown up as best he could, but he had seldom been used with
patience or forbearance. He prided himself on his self-control.
It had been whipped into him by the mockery of his fellows. Then
they called him cynical and callous. He had acquired calmness of
demeanour and under most circumstances an unruffled exterior, so
that now he could not show his feelings. People told him he was
unemotional; but he knew that he was at the mercy of his
emotions: an accidental kindness touched him so much that
sometimes he did not venture to speak in order not to betray the
unsteadiness of his voice. He remembered the bitterness of his
life at school, the humiliation which he had endured, the banter
which had made him morbidly afraid of making himself ridiculous;
and he remembered the loneliness he had felt since, faced with
the world, the disillusion and the disappointment caused by the
difference between what it promised to his active imagination
and what it gave. But notwithstanding he was able to look at
himself from the outside and smile with amusement.

"By Jove, if I weren't flippant, I should hang myself," he
thought cheerfully.

His mind went back to the answer he had given his uncle when he
asked him what he had learnt in Paris. He had learnt a good deal
more than he told him. A conversation with Cronshaw had stuck in
his memory, and one phrase he had used, a commonplace one
enough, had set his brain working.

"My dear fellow," Cronshaw said, "there's no such thing as
abstract morality."

When Philip ceased to believe in Christianity he felt that a
great weight was taken from his shoulders; casting off the
responsibility which weighed down every action, when every
action was infinitely important for the welfare of his immortal
soul, he experienced a vivid sense of liberty. But he knew now
that this was an illusion. When he put away the religion in
which he had been brought up, he had kept unimpaired the
morality which was part and parcel of it. He made up his mind
therefore to think things out for himself. He determined to be
swayed by no prejudices. He swept away the virtues and the
vices, the established laws of good and evil, with the idea of
finding out the rules of life for himself. He did not know
whether rules were necessary at all. That was one of the things
he wanted to discover. Clearly much that seemed valid seemed so
only because he had been taught it from his earliest youth. He
had read a number of books, but they did not help him much, for
they were based on the morality of Christianity; and even the
writers who emphasised the fact that they did not believe in it
were never satisfied till they had framed a system of ethics in
accordance with that of the Sermon on the Mount. It seemed
hardly worth while to read a long volume in order to learn that
you ought to behave exactly like everybody else. Philip wanted
to find out how he ought to behave, and he thought he could
prevent himself from being influenced by the opinions that
surrounded him. But meanwhile he had to go on living, and, until
he formed a theory of conduct, he made himself a provisional
rule.

"Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman round
the corner."

He thought the best thing he had gained in Paris was a complete
liberty of spirit, and he felt himself at last absolutely free.
In a desultory way he had read a good deal of philosophy, and he
looked forward with delight to the leisure of the next few
months. He began to read at haphazard. He entered upon each
system with a little thrill of excitement, expecting to find in
each some guide by which he could rule his conduct; he felt
himself like a traveller in unknown countries and as he pushed
forward the enterprise fascinated him; he read emotionally, as
other men read pure literature, and his heart leaped as he
discovered in noble words what himself had obscurely felt. His
mind was concrete and moved with difficulty in regions of the
abstract; but, even when he could not follow the reasoning, it
gave him a curious pleasure to follow the tortuosities of
thoughts that threaded their nimble way on the edge of the
incomprehensible. Sometimes great philosophers seemed to have
nothing to say to him, but at others he recognised a mind with
which he felt himself at home. He was like the explorer in
Central Africa who comes suddenly upon wide uplands, with great
trees in them and stretches of meadow, so that he might fancy
himself in an English park. He delighted in the robust common
sense of Thomas Hobbes; Spinoza filled him with awe, he had
never before come in contact with a mind so noble, so
unapproachable and austere; it reminded him of that statue by
Rodin, _L'Age d'Airain_, which he passionately admired; and
then there was Hume: the scepticism of that charming philosopher
touched a kindred note in Philip; and, revelling in the lucid
style which seemed able to put complicated thought into simple
words, musical and measured, he read as he might have read a
novel, a smile of pleasure on his lips. But in none could he
find exactly what he wanted. He had read somewhere that every
man was born a Platonist, an Aristotelian, a Stoic, or an
Epicurean; and the history of George Henry Lewes (besides
telling you that philosophy was all moonshine) was there to show
that the thought of each philospher was inseparably connected
with the man he was. When you knew that you could guess to a
great extent the philosophy he wrote. It looked as though you
did not act in a certain way because you thought in a certain
way, but rather that you thought in a certain way because you
were made in a certain way. Truth had nothing to do with it.
There was no such thing as truth. Each man was his own
philosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of
the past had composed were only valid for the writers.

The thing then was to discover what one was and one's system of
philosophy would devise itself. It seemed to Philip that there
were three things to find out: man's relation to the world he
lives in, man's relation with the men among whom he lives, and
finally man's relation to himself. He made an elaborate plan of
study.

The advantage of living abroad is that, coming in contact with
the manners and customs of the people among whom you live, you
observe them from the outside and see that they have not the
necessity which those who practise them believe. You cannot fail
to discover that the beliefs which to you are self-evident to
the foreigner are absurd. The year in Germany, the long stay in
Paris, had prepared Philip to receive the sceptical teaching
which came to him now with such a feeling of relief. He saw that
nothing was good and nothing was evil; things were merely
adapted to an end. He read _The Origin of Species_. It seemed
to offer an explanation of much that troubled him. He was like
an explorer now who has reasoned that certain natural features
must present themselves, and, beating up a broad river, finds
here the tributary that he expected, there the fertile,
populated plains, and further on the mountains. When some great
discovery is made the world is surprised afterwards that it was
not accepted at once, and even on those who acknowledge its
truth the effect is unimportant. The first readers of _The
Origin of Species_ accepted it with their reason; but their
emotions, which are the ground of conduct, were untouched.
Philip was born a generation after this great book was
published, and much that horrified its contemporaries had passed
into the feeling of the time, so that he was able to accept it
with a joyful heart. He was intensely moved by the grandeur of
the struggle for life, and the ethical rule which it suggested
seemed to fit in with his predispositions. He said to himself
that might was right. Society stood on one side, an organism
with its own laws of growth and self-preservation, while the
individual stood on the other. The actions which were to the
advantage of society it termed virtuous and those which were not
it called vicious. Good and evil meant nothing more than that.
Sin was a prejudice from which the free man should rid himself.
Society had three arms in its contest with the individual, laws,
public opinion, and conscience: the first two could be met by
guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the strong:
common opinion put the matter well when it stated that sin
consisted in being found out; but conscience was the traitor
within the gates; it fought in each heart the battle of society,
and caused the individual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice,
to the prosperity of his enemy. For it was clear that the two
were irreconcilable, the state and the individual conscious of
himself. _That_ uses the individual for its own ends,
trampling upon him if he thwarts it, rewarding him with medals,
pensions, honours, when he serves it faithfully; _this_,
strong only in his independence, threads his way through the
state, for convenience' sake, paying in money or service for
certain benefits, but with no sense of obligation; and,
indifferent to the rewards, asks only to be left alone. He is
the independent traveller, who uses Cook's tickets because they
save trouble, but looks with good-humoured contempt on the
personally conducted parties. The free man can do no wrong. He
does everything he likes--if he can. His power is the only
measure of his morality. He recognises the laws of the state and
he can break them without sense of sin, but if he is punished he
accepts the punishment without rancour. Society has the power.

But if for the individual there was no right and no wrong, then
it seemed to Philip that conscience lost its power. It was with
a cry of triumph that he seized the knave and flung him from his
breast. But he was no nearer to the meaning of life than he had
been before. Why the world was there and what men had come into
existence for at all was as inexplicable as ever. Surely there
must be some reason. He thought of Cronshaw's parable of the
Persian carpet. He offered it as a solution of the riddle, and
mysteriously he stated that it was no answer at all unless you
found it out for yourself.

"I wonder what the devil he meant," Philip smiled.

And so, on the last day of September, eager to put into practice
all these new theories of life, Philip, with sixteen hundred
pounds and his club-foot, set out for the second time to London
to make his third start in life.


CHAPTER LIV

THE examination Philip had passed before he was articled to a
chartered accountant was sufficient qualification for him to
enter a medical school. He chose St. Luke's because his father
had been a student there, and before the end of the summer
session had gone up to London for a day in order to see the
secretary. He got a list of rooms from him, and took lodgings in
a dingy house which had the advantage of being within two
minutes' walk of the hospital.

"You'll have to arrange about a part to dissect," the secretary
told him. "You'd better start on a leg; they generally do; they
seem to think it easier."

Philip found that his first lecture was in anatomy, at eleven,
and about half past ten he limped across the road, and a little
nervously made his way to the Medical School. Just inside the
door a number of notices were pinned up, lists of lectures,
football fixtures, and the like; and these he looked at idly,
trying to seem at his ease. Young men and boys dribbled in and
looked for letters in the rack, chatted with one another, and
passed downstairs to the basement, in which was the student's
reading-room. Philip saw several fellows with a desultory, timid
look dawdling around, and surmised that, like himself, they were
there for the first time. When he had exhausted the notices he
saw a glass door which led into what was apparently a museum,
and having still twenty minutes to spare he walked in. It was a
collection of pathological specimens. Presently a boy of about
eighteen came up to him.

"I say, are you first year?" he said.

"Yes," answered Philip.

"Where's the lecture room, d'you know? It's getting on for
eleven."

"We'd better try to find it."

They walked out of the museum into a long, dark corridor, with
the walls painted in two shades of red, and other youths walking
along suggested the way to them. They came to a door marked
Anatomy Theatre. Philip found that there were a good many people
already there. The seats were arranged in tiers, and just as
Philip entered an attendant came in, put a glass of water on the
table in the well of the lecture-room and then brought in a
pelvis and two thigh-bones, right and left. More men entered and
took their seats and by eleven the theatre was fairly full.
There were about sixty students. For the most part they were a
good deal younger than Philip, smooth-faced boys of eighteen,
but there were a few who were older than he: he noticed one tall
man, with a fierce red moustache, who might have been thirty;
another little fellow with black hair, only a year or two
younger; and there was one man with spectacles and a beard which
was quite gray.

The lecturer came in, Mr. Cameron, a handsome man with white
hair and clean-cut features. He called out the long list of
names. Then he made a little speech. He spoke in a pleasant
voice, with well-chosen words, and he seemed to take a discreet
pleasure in their careful arrangement. He suggested one or two
books which they might buy and advised the purchase of a
skeleton. He spoke of anatomy with enthusiasm: it was essential
to the study of surgery; a knowledge of it added to the
appreciation of art. Philip pricked up his ears. He heard later
that Mr. Cameron lectured also to the students at the Royal
Academy. He had lived many years in Japan, with a post at the
University of Tokyo, and he flattered himself on his
appreciation of the beautiful.

"You will have to learn many tedious things," he finished, with
an indulgent smile, "which you will forget the moment you have
passed your final examination, but in anatomy it is better to
have learned and lost than never to have learned at all."

He took up the pelvis which was lying on the table and began to
describe it. He spoke well and clearly.

At the end of the lecture the boy who had spoken to Philip in
the pathological museum and sat next to him in the theatre
suggested that they should go to the dissecting-room. Philip and
he walked along the corridor again, and an attendant told them
where it was. As soon as they entered Philip understood what the
acrid smell was which he had noticed in the passage. He lit a
pipe. The attendant gave a short laugh.

"You'll soon get used to the smell. I don't notice it myself."

He asked Philip's name and looked at a list on the board.

"You've got a leg--number four."

Philip saw that another name was bracketed with his own.

"What's the meaning of that?" he asked.

"We're very short of bodies just now. We've had to put two on
each part."

The dissecting-room was a large apartment painted like the
corridors, the upper part a rich salmon and the dado a dark
terra-cotta. At regular intervals down the long sides of the
room, at right angles with the wall, were iron slabs, grooved
like meat-dishes; and on each lay a body. Most of them were men.
They were very dark from the preservative in which they had been
kept, and the skin had almost the look of leather. They were
extremely emaciated. The attendant took Philip up to one of the
slabs. A youth was standing by it.

"Is your name Carey?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Oh, then we've got this leg together. It's lucky it's a man,
isn't it?"

"Why?" asked Philip.

"They generally always like a male better," said the attendant.
"A female's liable to have a lot of fat about her."

Philip looked at the body. The arms and legs were so thin that
there was no shape in them, and the ribs stood out so that the
skin over them was tense. A man of about forty-five with a thin,
gray beard, and on his skull scanty, colourless hair: the eyes
were closed and the lower jaw sunken. Philip could not feel that
this had ever been a man, and yet in the row of them there was
something terrible and ghastly.

"I thought I'd start at two," said the young man who was
dissecting with Philip.

"All right, I'll be here then."

He had bought the day before the case of instruments which was
needful, and now he was given a locker. He looked at the boy who
had accompanied him into the dissecting-room and saw that he was
white.

"Make you feel rotten?" Philip asked him.

"I've never seen anyone dead before."

They walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of
the school. Philip remembered Fanny Price. She was the first
dead person he had ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it
had affected him. There was an immeasurable distance between the
quick and the dead: they did not seem to belong to the same
species; and it was strange to think that but a little while
before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed. There
was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine
that they might cast an evil influence on the living.

"What d'you say to having something to eat?" said his new friend
to Philip.

They went down into the basement, where there was a dark room
fitted up as a restaurant, and here the students were able to
get the same sort of fare as they might have at an aerated bread
shop. While they ate (Philip had a scone and butter and a cup of
chocolate), he discovered that his companion was called
Dunsford. He was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue
eyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and
movement. He had just come from Clifton.

"Are you taking the Conjoint?" he asked Philip.

"Yes, I want to get qualified as soon as I can."

"I'm taking it too, but I shall take the F. R. C. S. afterwards.
I'm going in for surgery."

Most of the students took the curriculum of the Conjoint Board
of the College of Surgeons and the College of Physicians; but
the more ambitious or the more industrious added to this the
longer studies which led to a degree from the University of
London. When Philip went to St. Luke's changes had recently been
made in the regulations, and the course took five years instead
of four as it had done for those who registered before the
autumn of 1892. Dunsford was well up in his plans and told
Philip the usual course of events. The "first conjoint"
examination consisted of biology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it
could be taken in sections, and most fellows took their biology
three months after entering the school. This science had been
recently added to the list of subjects upon which the student
was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge
required was very small.

When Philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few
minutes late, since he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves
which they wore to protect their shirts, and he found a number
of men already working. His partner had started on the minute
and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves. Two others were
engaged on the second leg, and more were occupied with the arms.

"You don't mind my having started?"

"That's all right, fire away," said Philip.

He took the book, open at a diagram of the dissected part, and
looked at what they had to find.

"You're rather a dab at this," said Philip.

"Oh, I've done a good deal of dissecting before, animals, you
know, for the Pre Sci."

There was a certain amount of conversation over the
dissecting-table, partly about the work, partly about the
prospects of the football season, the demonstrators, and the
lectures. Philip felt himself a great deal older than the
others. They were raw schoolboys. But age is a matter of
knowledge rather than of years; and Newson, the active young man
who was dissecting with him, was very much at home with his
subject. He was perhaps not sorry to show off, and he explained
very fully to Philip what he was about. Philip, notwithstanding
his hidden stores of wisdom, listened meekly. Then Philip took
up the scalpel and the tweezers and began working while the
other looked on.

"Ripping to have him so thin," said Newson, wiping his hands.
"The blighter can't have had anything to eat for a month."

"I wonder what he died of," murmured Philip.

"Oh, I don't know, any old thing, starvation chiefly, I
suppose.... I say, look out, don't cut that artery."

"It's all very fine to say, don't cut that artery," remarked one
of the men working on the opposite leg. "Silly old fool's got an
artery in the wrong place."

"Arteries always are in the wrong place," said Newson. "The
normal's the one thing you practically never get. That's why
it's called the normal."

"Don't say things like that," said Philip, "or I shall cut
myself."

"If you cut yourself," answered Newson, full of information,
"wash it at once with antiseptic. It's the one thing you've got
to be careful about. There was a chap here last year who gave
himself only a prick, and he didn't bother about it, and he got
septicaemia."

"Did he get all right?"

"Oh, no, he died in a week. I went and had a look at him in the
P. M. room."

Philip's back ached by the time it was proper to have tea, and
his luncheon had been so light that he was quite ready for it.
His hands smelt of that peculiar odour which he had first
noticed that morning in the corridor. He thought his muffin
tasted of it too.

"Oh, you'll get used to that," said Newson. "When you don't have
the good old dissecting-room stink about, you feel quite
lonely."

"I'm not going to let it spoil my appetite," said Philip, as he
followed up the muffin with a piece of cake.


CHAPTER LV

PHILIP'S ideas of the life of medical students, like those of
the public at large, were founded on the pictures which Charles
Dickens drew in the middle of the nineteenth century. He Soon
discovered that Bob Sawyer, if he ever existed, was no longer at
all like the medical student of the present.

It is a mixed lot which enters upon the medical profession, and
naturally there are some who are lazy and reckless. They think
it is an easy life, idle away a couple of years; and then,
because their funds come to an end or because angry parents
refuse any longer to support them, drift away from the hospital.
Others find the examinations too hard for them; one failure
after another robs them of their nerve; and, panic-stricken,
they forget as soon as they come into the forbidding buildings
of the Conjoint Board the knowledge which before they had so
pat. They remain year after year, objects of good-humoured scorn
to younger men: some of them crawl through the examination of
the Apothecaries Hall; others become non-qualified assistants,
a precarious position in which they are at the mercy of their
employer; their lot is poverty, drunkenness, and Heaven only
knows their end. But for the most part medical students are
industrious young men of the middle-class with a sufficient
allowance to live in the respectable fashion they have been used
to; many are the sons of doctors who have already something of
the professional manner; their career is mapped out: as soon as
they are qualified they propose to apply for a hospital
appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the Far
East as a ship's doctor), they will join their father and spend
the rest of their days in a country practice. One or two are
marked out as exceptionally brilliant: they will take the
various prizes and scholarships which are open each year to the
deserving, get one appointment after another at the hospital, go
on the staff, take a consulting-room in Harley Street, and,
specialising in one subject or another, become prosperous,
eminent, and titled.

The medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at
any age with some chance of making a living. Among the men of
Philip's year were three or four who were past their first
youth: one had been in the Navy, from which according to report
he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he was a man of thirty,
with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice. Another was
a married man with two children, who had lost money through a
defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were
too much for him; he went about his work silently, and it was
plain that he found it difficult at his age to commit facts to
memory. His mind worked slowly. His effort at application was
painful to see.

Philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. He arranged his
books and hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he
possessed. Above him, on the drawing-room floor, lived a
fifth-year man called Griffiths; but Philip saw little of him,
partly because he was occupied chiefly in the wards and partly
because he had been to Oxford. Such of the students as had been
to a university kept a good deal together: they used a variety
of means natural to the young in order to impress upon the less
fortunate a proper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the
students found their Olympian serenity rather hard to bear.
Griffiths was a tall fellow, with a quantity of curly red hair
and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red mouth; he was one of
those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he had high
spirits and a constant gaiety. He strummed a little on the piano
and sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening,
while Philip was reading in his solitary room, he heard the
shouts and the uproarious laughter of Griffiths' friends above
him. He thought of those delightful evenings in Paris when they
would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, Flanagan and Clutton,
and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present, and
the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that it
was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its
results. The worst of it was that the work seemed to him very
tedious. He had got out of the habit of being asked questions by
demonstrators. His attention wandered at lectures. Anatomy was
a dreary science, a mere matter of learning by heart an enormous
number of facts; dissection bored him; he did not see the use of
dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when with much
less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the
specimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were.

He made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he
seemed to have nothing in particular to say to his companions.
When he tried to interest himself in their concerns, he felt
that they found him patronising. He was not of those who can
talk of what moves them without caring whether it bores or not
the people they talk to. One man, hearing that he had studied
art in Paris, and fancying himself on his taste, tried to
discuss art with him; but Philip was impatient of views which
did not agree with his own; and, finding quickly that the
other's ideas were conventional, grew monosyllabic. Philip
desired popularity but could bring himself to make no advances
to others. A fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and
he concealed his shyness, which was still intense, under a
frigid taciturnity. He was going through the same experience as
he had done at school, but here the freedom of the medical
students' life made it possible for him to live a good deal by
himself.

It was through no effort of his that he became friendly with
Dunsford, the fresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance
he had made at the beginning of the session. Dunsford attached
himself to Philip merely because he was the first person he had
known at St. Luke's. He had no friends in London, and on
Saturday nights he and Philip got into the habit of going
together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a theatre.
He was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took offence;
he always said the obvious thing, but when Philip laughed at him
merely smiled. He had a very sweet smile. Though Philip made him
his butt, he liked him; he was amused by his candour and
delighted with his agreeable nature: Dunsford had the charm
which himself was acutely conscious of not possessing.

They often went to have tea at a shop in Parliament Street,
because Dunsford admired one of the young women who waited.
Philip did not find anything attractive in her. She was tall and
thin, with narrow hips and the chest of a boy.

"No one would look at her in Paris," said Philip scornfully.

"She's got a ripping face," said Dunsford.

"What _does_ the face matter?"

She had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad
low brow, which the Victorian painters, Lord Leighton, Alma
Tadema, and a hundred others, induced the world they lived in to
accept as a type of Greek beauty. She seemed to have a great
deal of hair: it was arranged with peculiar elaboration and done
over the forehead in what she called an Alexandra fringe. She
was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and her skin was
delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even
in the cheeks. She had very good teeth. She took great pains to
prevent her work from spoiling her hands, and they were small,
thin, and white. She went about her duties with a bored look.

Dunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting
into conversation with her; and he urged Philip to help him.

"All I want is a lead," he said, "and then I can manage for
myself."

Philip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered
with monosyllables. She had taken their measure. They were boys,
and she surmised they were students. She had no use for them.
Dunsford noticed that a man with sandy hair and a bristly
moustache, who looked like a German, was favoured with her
attention whenever he came into the shop; and then it was only
by calling her two or three times that they could induce her to
take their order. She used the clients whom she did not know
with frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was
perfectly indifferent to the calls of the hurried. She had the
art of treating women who desired refreshment with just that
degree of impertinence which irritated them without affording
them an opportunity of complaining to the management. One day
Dunsford told him her name was Mildred. He had heard one of the
other girls in the shop address her.

"What an odious name," said Philip.

"Why?" asked Dunsford.

"I like it."

"It's so pretentious."

It chanced that on this day the German was not there, and, when
she brought the tea, Philip, smiling, remarked:

"Your friend's not here today."

"I don't know what you mean," she said coldly.

"I was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. Has
he left you for another?"

"Some people would do better to mind their own business," she
retorted.

She left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one
to attend to, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a
customer had left behind him.

"You are a fool to put her back up," said Dunsford.

"I'm really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae,"
replied Philip.

But he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be
agreeable with a woman she should take offence. When he asked
for the bill, he hazarded a remark which he meant to lead
further.

"Are we no longer on speaking terms?" he smiled.

"I'm here to take orders and to wait on customers. I've got
nothing to say to them, and I don't want them to say anything to
me."

She put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum
they had to pay, and walked back to the table at which she had
been sitting. Philip flushed with anger.

"That's one in the eye for you, Carey," said Dunsford, when they
got outside.

"Ill-mannered slut," said Philip. "I shan't go there again."

His influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take
their tea elsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman
to flirt with. But the snub which the waitress had inflicted on
him rankled. If she had treated him with civility he would have
been perfectly indifferent to her; but it was obvious that she
disliked him rather than otherwise, and his pride was wounded.
He could not suppress a desire to be even with her. He was
impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but
three or four days' firmness, during which he would not go to
the shop, did not help him to surmount it; and he came to the
conclusion that it would be least trouble to see her. Having
done so he would certainly cease to think of her. Pretexting an
appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little ashamed of
his weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop
which he had vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the
moment he came in and sat down at one of her tables. He expected
her to make some reference to the fact that he had not been
there for a week, but when she came up for his order she said
nothing. He had heard her say to other customers:

"You're quite a stranger."

She gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to
see whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his
tea, he asked:

"Have you seen my friend tonight?"

"No, he's not been in here for some days."

He wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he
was strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She
gave him no opportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance
of saying anything till he asked for his bill.

"Filthy weather, isn't it?" he said.

It was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a
phrase as that. He could not make out why she filled him with
such embarrassment.

"It don't make much difference to me what the weather is, having
to be in here all day."

There was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated
him. A sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be
silent.

"I wish to God she'd say something really cheeky," he raged to
himself, "so that I could report her and get her sacked. It
would serve her damned well right."


CHAPTER LVI

HE COULD not get her out of his mind. He laughed angrily at his
own foolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little
waitress said to him; but he was strangely humiliated. Though no
one knew of the humiliation but Dunsford, and he had certainly
forgotten, Philip felt that he could have no peace till he had
wiped it out. He thought over what he had better do. He made up
his mind that he would go to the shop every day; it was obvious
that he had made a disagreeable impression on her, but he
thought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care not
to say anything at which the most susceptible person could be
offended. All this he did, but it had no effect. When he went in
and said good-evening she answered with the same words, but when
once he omitted to say it in order to see whether she would say
it first, she said nothing at all. He murmured in his heart an
expression which though frequently applicable to members of the
female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but with
an unmoved face he ordered his tea. He made up his mind not to
speak a word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. He
promised himself that he would not go any more, but the next day
at tea-time he grew restless. He tried to think of other things,
but he had no command over his thoughts. At last he said
desperately:

"After all there's no reason why I shouldn't go if I want to."

The struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was
getting on for seven when he entered the shop.

"I thought you weren't coming," the girl said to him, when he
sat down.

His heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. "I
was detained. I couldn't come before."

"Cutting up people, I suppose?"

"Not so bad as that."

"You are a stoodent, aren't you?"

"Yes."

But that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and,
since at that late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she
immersed herself in a novelette. This was before the time of the
sixpenny reprints. There was a regular supply of inexpensive
fiction written to order by poor hacks for the consumption of
the illiterate. Philip was elated; she had addressed him of her
own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would come
and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. It would
be a great comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. He
looked at her. It was true that her profile was beautiful; it
was extraordinary how English girls of that class had so often
a perfection of outline which took your breath away, but it was
as cold as marble; and the faint green of her delicate skin gave
an impression of unhealthiness. All the waitresses were dressed
alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron, cuffs, and a
small cap. On a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket
Philip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book
(she outlined the words with her lips as she read), and left it
on the table when he went away. It was an inspiration, for next
day, when he came in, she smiled at him.

"I didn't know you could draw," she said.

"I was an art-student in Paris for two years."

"I showed that drawing you left be'ind you last night to the
manageress and she _was_ struck with it. Was it meant to be
me?"

"It was," said Philip.

When she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to
him.

"I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very
image of her," she said.

That was the first time he had heard her name, and when he
wanted his bill he called her by it.

"I see you know my name," she said, when she came.

"Your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about
that drawing."

"She wants you to do one of her. Don't you do it. If you once
begin you'll have to go on, and they'll all be wanting you to do
them." Then without a pause, with peculiar inconsequence, she
said: "Where's that young fellow that used to come with you? Has
he gone away?"

"Fancy your remembering him," said Philip.

"He was a nice-looking young fellow."

Philip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. He did not
know what it was. Dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh
complexion, and a beautiful smile. Philip thought of these
advantages with envy.

"Oh, he's in love," said he, with a little laugh.

Philip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he
limped home. She was quite friendly with him now. When
opportunity arose he would offer to make a more finished sketch
of her, he was sure she would like that; her face was
interesting, the profile was lovely, and there was something
curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour. He tried to
think what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup; but,
driving away that idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a
yellow rosebud when you tore it to pieces before it had burst.
He had no ill-feeling towards her now.

"She's not a bad sort," he murmured.

It was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was
doubtless his own fault; she had not meant to make herself
disagreeable: he ought to be accustomed by now to making at
first sight a bad impression on people. He was flattered at the
success of his drawing; she looked upon him with more interest
now that she was aware of this small talent. He was restless
next day. He thought of going to lunch at the tea-shop, but he
was certain there would be many people there then, and Mildred
would not be able to talk to him. He had managed before this to
get out of having tea with Dunsford, and, punctually at half
past four (he had looked at his watch a dozen times), he went
into the shop.

Mildred had her back turned to him. She was sitting down,
talking to the German whom Philip had seen there every day till
a fortnight ago and since then had not seen at all. She was
laughing at what he said. Philip thought she had a common laugh,
and it made him shudder. He called her, but she took no notice;
he called her again; then, growing angry, for he was impatient,
he rapped the table loudly with his stick. She approached
sulkily.

"How d'you do?" he said.

"You seem to be in a great hurry."

She looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so
well.

"I say, what's the matter with you?" he asked.

"If you'll kindly give your order I'll get what you want. I
can't stand talking all night."

"Tea and toasted bun, please," Philip answered briefly.

He was furious with her. He had _The Star_ with him and read
it elaborately when she brought the tea.

"If you'll give me my bill now I needn't trouble you again," he
said icily.

She wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to
the German. Soon she was talking to him with animation. He was
a man of middle height, with the round head of his nation and a
sallow face; his moustache was large and bristling; he had on a
tail-coat and gray trousers, and he wore a massive gold
watch-chain. Philip thought the other girls looked from him to
the pair at the table and exchanged significant glances. He felt
certain they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. He
detested Mildred now with all his heart. He knew that the best
thing he could do was to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he
could not bear to think that he had been worsted in the affair,
and he devised a plan to show her that he despised her. Next day
he sat down at another table and ordered his tea from another
waitress. Mildred's friend was there again and she was talking
to him. She paid no attention to Philip, and so when he went out
he chose a moment when she had to cross his path: as he passed
he looked at her as though he had never seen her before. He
repeated this for three or four days. He expected that presently
she would take the opportunity to say something to him; he
thought she would ask why he never came to one of her tables
now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the loathing
he felt for her. He knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could
not help himself. She had beaten him again. The German suddenly
disappeared, but Philip still sat at other tables. She paid no
attention to him. Suddenly he realised that what he did was a
matter of complete indifference to her; he could go on in that
way till doomsday, and it would have no effect.

"I've not finished yet," he said to himself.

The day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up
said good-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week.
His face was placid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of
his heart. At that time the musical comedy had lately leaped
into public favour, and he was sure that Mildred would be
delighted to go to one.

"I say," he said suddenly, "I wonder if you'd dine with me one
night and come to _The Belle of New York_. I'll get a couple
of stalls."

He added the last sentence in order to tempt her. He knew that
when the girls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if
some man took them, seldom to more expensive seats than the
upper circle. Mildred's pale face showed no change of
expression.

"I don't mind," she said.

"When will you come?"

"I get off early on Thursdays."

They made arrangements. Mildred lived with an aunt at Herne
Hill. The play began at eight so they must dine at seven. She
proposed that he should meet her in the second-class
waiting-room at Victoria Station. She showed no pleasure, but
accepted the invitation as though she conferred a favour. Philip
was vaguely irritated.


CHAPTER LVII

PHILIP arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before
the time which Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the
second-class waiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He
began to grow anxious, and walked into the station watching the
incoming suburban trains; the hour which she had fixed passed,
and still there was no sign of her. Philip was impatient. He
went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at the people
sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud.

"There you are. I thought you were never coming."

"I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half
a mind to go back home again."

"But you said you'd come to the second-class waiting-room."

"I didn't say any such thing. It isn't exactly likely I'd sit in
the second-class room when I could sit in the first is it?"

Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said
nothing, and they got into a cab.

"Where are we dining?" she asked.

"I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?"

"I don't mind where we dine."

She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting
and answered Philip's attempt at conversation with
monosyllables. She wore a long cloak of some rough, dark
material and a crochet shawl over her head. They reached the
restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round with
satisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the
gold of the decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a
sumptuous air.

"I've never been here before."

She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw
that she wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her
hair was more elaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered
champagne and when it came her eyes sparkled.

"You are going it," she said.

"Because I've ordered fiz?" he asked carelessly, as though he
never drank anything else.

"I _was_ surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with
you." Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem
to have much to say; and Philip was nervously conscious that he
was not amusing her. She listened carelessly to his remarks,
with her eyes on other diners, and made no pretence that she was
interested in him. He made one or two little jokes, but she took
them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he got was when
he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the
manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length.

"I can't stick her at any price and all the air she gives
herself. Sometimes I've got more than half a mind to tell her
something she doesn't think I know anything about."

"What is that?" asked Philip.

"Well, I happen to know that she's not above going to Eastbourne
with a man for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has
a married sister who goes there with her husband, and she's seen
her. She was staying at the same boarding-house, and she 'ad a
wedding-ring on, and I know for one she's not married."

Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her
more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a
success. He noticed that she held her knife as though it were a
pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger. He
started several topics of conversation, but he could get little
out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen
her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the German.
They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a very
cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with
scorn. He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it
seemed to him that they did these things much better in France;
but Mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her
sides ached, looking at Philip now and then when something
tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded
rapturously.

"This is the seventh time I've been," she said, after the first
act, "and I don't mind if I come seven times more."

She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the
stalls. She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and
those who wore false hair.

"It is horrible, these West-end people," she said. "I don't know
how they can do it." She put her hand to her hair. "Mine's all
my own, every bit of it."

She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it
was to say something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He
supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that
he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death. He
disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with
her. On the way home he asked:

"I hope you've enjoyed yourself?"

"Rather."

"Will you come out with me again one evening?"

"I don't mind."

He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her
indifference maddened him.

"That sounds as if you didn't much care if you came or not."

"Oh, if you don't take me out some other fellow will. I need
never want for men who'll take me to the theatre."

Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the
booking-office.

"I've got my season," she said. "I thought I'd take you home as
it's rather late, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I don't mind if it gives you any pleasure."

He took a single first for her and a return for himself.

"Well, you're not mean, I will say that for you," she said, when
he opened the carriage-door.

Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other
people entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at
Herne Hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in
which she lived.

"I'll say good-night to you here," she said, holding out her
hand. "You'd better not come up to the door. I know what people
are, and I don't want to have anybody talking."

She said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the
white shawl in the darkness. He thought she might turn round,
but she did not. Philip saw which house she went into, and in a
moment he walked along to look at it. It was a trim, common
little house of yellow brick, exactly like all the other little
houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes, and
presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip
strolled slowly back to the station. The evening had been
unsatisfactory. He felt irritated, restless, and miserable.

When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the
corner of the railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl
over her head. He did not know how he was to get through the
hours that must pass before his eyes rested on her again. He
thought drowsily of her thin face, with its delicate features,
and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happy with her,
but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her side
and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the
thought came to him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew
wide awake... he wanted to kiss the thin, pale mouth with its
narrow lips. The truth came to him at last. He was in love with
her. It was incredible.

He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene
which he had pictured to himself over and over again. He saw
himself coming into a ball-room; his eyes fell on a little group
of men and women talking; and one of the women turned round. Her
eyes fell upon him, and he knew that the gasp in his throat was
in her throat too. He stood quite still. She was tall and dark
and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed in
white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one
another, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went
straight up to her, and she moved a little towards him. Both
felt that the formality of introduction was out of place. He
spoke to her.

"I've been looking for you all my life," he said.

"You've come at last," she murmured.

"Will you dance with me?"

She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they
danced. (Philip always pretended that he was not lame.) She
danced divinely.

"I've never danced with anyone who danced like you," she said.

She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole
evening.

"I'm so thankful that I waited for you," he said to her. "I knew
that in the end I must meet you."

People in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not
wish to hide their passion. At last they went into the garden.
He flung a light cloak over her shoulders and put her in a
waiting cab. They caught the midnight train to Paris; and they
sped through the silent, star-lit night into the unknown.

He thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible
that he should be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was
grotesque. He did not think her pretty; he hated the thinness of
her, only that evening he had noticed how the bones of her chest
stood out in evening-dress; he went over her features one by
one; he did not like her mouth, and the unhealthiness of her
colour vaguely repelled him. She was common. Her phrases, so
bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of her
mind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the
musical comedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully
extended when she held her glass to her mouth; her manners like
her conversation, were odiously genteel. He remembered her
insolence; sometimes he had felt inclined to box her ears; and
suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it was the thought of hitting
her or the recollection of her tiny, beautiful ears, he was
seized by an uprush of emotion. He yearned for her. He thought
of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing
her pale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly
greenish cheeks. He wanted her.

He had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all
the world seemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an
ecstatic happiness; but this was not happiness; it was a hunger
of the soul, it was a painful yearning, it was a bitter anguish,
he had never known before. He tried to think when it had first
come to him. He did not know. He only remembered that each time
he had gone into the shop, after the first two or three times,
it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain;
and he remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously
breathless. When she left him it was wretchedness, and when she
came to him again it was despair.

He stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He
wondered how he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his
soul.


CHAPTER LVIII

PHILIP woke early next morning, and his first thought was of
Mildred. It struck him that he might meet her at Victoria
Station and walk with her to the shop. He shaved quickly,
scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus to the station. He
was there by twenty to eight aud watched the incoming trains.
Crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that early
hour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along,
sometimes in pairs, here and there a group of girls, but more
often alone. They were white, most of them, ugly in the early
morning, and they had an abstracted look; the younger ones
walked lightly, as though the cement of the platform were
pleasant to tread, but the others went as though impelled by a
machine: their faces were set in an anxious frown.

At last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her eagerly.

"Good-morning," he said. "I thought I'd come and see how you
were after last night."

She wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It was very clear
that she was not pleased to see him.

"Oh, I'm all right. I haven't got much time to waste."

"D'you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with you?"

"I'm none too early. I shall have to walk fast," she answered,
looking down at Philip's club-foot.

He turned scarlet.

"I beg your pardon. I won't detain you."

"You can please yourself."

She went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to
breakfast. He hated her. He knew he was a fool to bother about
her; she was not the sort of woman who would ever care two
straws for him, and she must look upon his deformity with
distaste. He made up his mind that he would not go in to tea
that afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. She nodded to him
as he came in and smiled.

"I expect I was rather short with you this morning," she said.
"You see, I didn't expect you, and it came like a surprise."

"Oh, it doesn't matter at all."

He felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him.
He was infinitely grateful for one word of kindness.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asked. "Nobody's wanting you just
now."

"I don't mind if I do."

He looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked
his brains anxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her
by him; he wanted to tell her how much she meant to him; but he
did not know how to make love now that he loved in earnest.

"Where's your friend with the fair moustache? I haven't seen him
lately"

"Oh, he's gone back to Birmingham. He's in business there. He
only comes up to London every now and again."

"Is he in love with you?"

"You'd better ask him," she said, with a laugh. "I don't know
what it's got to do with you if he is."

A bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning
self-restraint.

"I wonder why you say things like that," was all he permitted
himself to say.

She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers.

"It looks as if you didn't set much store on me," he added.

"Why should I?"

"No reason at all."

He reached over for his paper.

"You are quick-tempered," she said, when she saw the gesture.
"You do take offence easily."

He smiled and looked at her appealingly.

"Will you do something for me?" he asked.

"That depends what it is."

"Let me walk back to the station with you tonight."

"I don't mind."

He went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight
o'clock, when the shop closed, he was waiting outside.

"You are a caution," she said, when she came out. "I don't
understand you."

"I shouldn't have thought it was very difficult," he answered
bitterly.

"Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?"

"I don't know and I don't care."

"They all laugh at you, you know. They say you're spoony on me."

"Much you care," he muttered.

"Now then, quarrelsome."

At the station he took a ticket and said he was going to
accompany her home.

"You don't seem to have much to do with your time," she said.

"I suppose I can waste it in my own way."

They seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. The fact was
that he hated himself for loving her. She seemed to be
constantly humiliating him, and for each snub that he endured he
owed her a grudge. But she was in a friendly mood that evening,
and talkative: she told him that her parents were dead; she gave
him to understand that she did not have to earn her living, but
worked for amusement.

"My aunt doesn't like my going to business. I can have the best
of everything at home. I don't want you to think I work because
I need to." Philip knew that she was not speaking the truth. The
gentility of her class made her use this pretence to avoid the
stigma attached to earning her living.

"My family's very well-connected," she said.

Philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it.

"What are you laughing at?" she said quickly. "Don't you believe
I'm telling you the truth?"

"Of course I do," he answered.

She looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment could not resist
the temptation to impress him with the splendour of her early
days.

"My father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three servants. We
had a cook and a housemaid and an odd man. We used to grow
beautiful roses. People used to stop at the gate and ask who the
house belonged to, the roses were so beautiful. Of course it
isn't very nice for me having to mix with them girls in the
shop, it's not the class of person I've been used to, and
sometimes I really think I'll give up business on that account.
It's not the work I mind, don't think that; but it's the class
of people I have to mix with."

They were sitting opposite one another in the train, and Philip,
listening sympathetically to what she said, was quite happy. He
was amused at her naivete and slightly touched. There was a very
faint colour in her cheeks. He was thinking that it would be
delightful to kiss the tip of her chin.

"The moment you come into the shop I saw you was a gentleman in
every sense of the word. Was your father a professional man?"

"He was a doctor."

"You can always tell a professional man. There's something about
them, I don't know what it is, but I know at once."

They walked along from the station together.

"I say, I want you to come and see another play with me," he
said.

"I don't mind," she said.

"You might go so far as to say you'd like to."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter. Let's fix a day. Would Saturday night suit
you?"

"Yes, that'll do."

They made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the
corner of the road in which she lived. She gave him her hand,
and he held it.

"I say, I do so awfully want to call you Mildred."

"You may if you like, I don't care."

"And you'll call me Philip, won't you?"

"I will if I can think of it. It seems more natural to call you
Mr. Carey."

He drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back.

"What are you doing?"

"Won't you kiss me good-night?" he whispered.

"Impudence!" she said.

She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house.


Philip bought tickets for Saturday night. It was not one of the
days on which she got off early and therefore she would have no
time to go home and change; but she meant to bring a frock up
with her in the morning and hurry into her clothes at the shop.
If the manageress was in a good temper she would let her go at
seven. Philip had agreed to wait outside from a quarter past
seven onwards. He looked forward to the occasion with painful
eagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the
station he thought she would let him kiss her. The vehicle gave
every facility for a man to put his arm round a girl's waist (an
advantage which the hansom had over the taxi of the present
day), and the delight of that was worth the cost of the
evening's entertainment.

But on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order
to confirm the arrangements, he met the man with the fair
moustache coming out of the shop. He knew by now that he was
called Miller. He was a naturalized German, who had anglicised
his name, and he had lived many years in England. Philip had
heard him speak, and, though his English was fluent and natural,
it had not quite the intonation of the native. Philip knew that
he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of
him; but he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament,
which otherwise distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of
passion, he looked upon his rival as no better off than himself.
But his heart sank now, for his first thought was that Miller's
sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt which he had so
looked forward to. He entered, sick with apprehension. The
waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently
brought it.

"I'm awfully, sorry" she said, with an expression on her face of
real distress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after all."

"Why?" said Philip.

"Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's not my fault.
My aunt was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out
so I must go and sit with her. She can't be left alone, can
she?"

"It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead."

"But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them."

He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up.

"What are you doing that for?"

"You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy
by myself, do you? I only took seats there for your sake."

"You can't see me home if that's what you mean?"

"You've made other arrangements."

"I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as selfish as
all the rest of them. You only think of yourself. It's not my
fault if my aunt's queer."

She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very
little about women, or he would have been aware that one should
accept their most transparent lies. He made up his mind that he
would watch the shop and see for certain whether Mildred went
out with the German. He had an unhappy passion for certainty. At
seven he stationed himself on the opposite pavement. He looked
about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutes she came
out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he
took her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was
not going home. She saw him before he had time to move away,
started a little, and then came straight up to him.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"Taking the air," he answered.

"You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was a
gentleman."

"Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest
in you?" he murmured.

There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters
worse. He wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him.

"I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not obliged to
come out with you. I tell you I'm going home, and I won't be
followed or spied upon."

"Have you seen Miller today?"

"That's no business of yours. In point of fact I haven't, so
you're wrong again."

"I saw him this afternoon. He'd just come out of the shop when
I went in."

"Well, what if he did? I can go out with him if I want to, can't
I? I don't know what you've got to say to it."

"He's keeping you waiting, isn't he?"

"Well, I'd rather wait for him than have you wait for me. Put
that in your pipe and smoke it. And now p'raps you'll go off
home and mind your own business in future."

His mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice
trembled when he spoke.

"I say, don't be beastly with me, Mildred. You know I'm awfully
fond of you. I think I love you with all my heart. Won't you
change your mind? I was looking forward to this evening so
awfully. You see, he hasn't come, and he can't care twopence
about you really. Won't you dine with me? I'll get some more
tickets, and we'll go anywhere you like."

"I tell you I won't. It's no good you talking. I've made up my
mind, and when I make up my mind I keep to it."

He looked at her for a moment. His heart was torn with anguish.
People were hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and
omnibuses rolled by noisily. He saw that Mildred's eyes were
wandering. She was afraid of missing Miller in the crowd.

"I can't go on like this," groaned Philip. "it's too degrading.
if I go now I go for good. Unless you'll come with me tonight
you'll never see me again."

"You seem to think that'll be an awful thing for me. All I say
is, good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Then good-bye."

He nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his
heart that she would call him back. At the next lamp-post he
stopped and looked over his shoulder. He thought she might
beckon to him--he was willing to forget everything, he was ready
for any humiliation--but she had turned away, and apparently had
ceased to trouble about him. He realised that she was glad to be
quit of him.


CHAPTER LIX

PHILIP passed the evening wretchedly. He had told his landlady
that he would not be in, so there was nothing for him to eat,
and he had to go to Gatti's for dinner. Afterwards he went back
to his rooms, but Griffiths on the floor above him was having a
party, and the noisy merriment made his own misery more hard to
bear. He went to a music-hall, but it was Saturday night and
there was standing-room only: after half an hour of boredom his
legs grew tired and he went home. He tried to read, but he could
not fix his attention; and yet it was necessary that he should
work hard. His examination in biology was in little more than a
fortnight, and, though it was easy, he had neglected his
lectures of late and was conscious that he knew nothing. It was
only a _viva_, however, and he felt sure that in a fortnight
he could find out enough about the subject to scrape through. He
had confidence in his intelligence. He threw aside his book and
gave himself up to thinking deliberately of the matter which was
in his mind all the time.

He reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that evening.
Why had he given her the alternative that she must dine with him
or else never see him again? Of course she refused. He should
have allowed for her pride. He had burnt his ships behind him.
It would not be so hard to bear if he thought that she was
suffering now, but he knew her too well: she was perfectly
indifferent to him. If he hadn't been a fool he would have
pretended to believe her story; he ought to have had the
strength to conceal his disappointment and the self-control to
master his temper. He could not tell why he loved her. He had
read of the idealisation that takes place in love, but he saw
her exactly as she was. She was not amusing or clever, her mind
was common; she had a vulgar shrewdness which revolted him, she
had no gentleness nor softness. As she would have put it
herself, she was on the make. What aroused her admiration was a
clever trick played on an unsuspecting person; to `do' somebody
always gave her satisfaction. Philip laughed savagely as he
thought of her gentility and the refinement with which she ate
her food; she could not bear a coarse word, so far as her
limited vocabulary reached she had a passion for euphemisms, and
she scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of trousers
but referred to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly
indelicate to blow her nose and did it in a deprecating way. She
was dreadfully anaemic and suffered from the dyspepsia which
accompanies that ailing. Philip was repelled by her flat breast
and narrow hips, and he hated the vulgar way in which she did
her hair. He loathed and despised himself for loving her.

The fact remained that he was helpless. He felt just as he had
felt sometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school. He had
struggled against the superior strength till his own strength
was gone, and he was rendered quite powerless--he remembered the
peculiar languor he had felt in his limbs, almost as though he
were paralysed--so that he could not help himself at all. He
might have been dead. He felt just that same weakness now. He
loved the woman so that he knew he had never loved before. He
did not mind her faults of person or of character, he thought he
loved them too: at all events they meant nothing to him. It did
not seem himself that was concerned; he felt that he had been
seized by some strange force that moved him against his will,
contrary to his interests; and because he had a passion for
freedom he hated the chains which bound him. He laughed at
himself when he thought how often he had longed to experience
the overwhelming passion. He cursed himself because he had given
way to it. He thought of the beginnings; nothing of all this
would have happened if he had not gone into the shop with
Dunsford. The whole thing was his own fault. Except for his
ridiculous vanity he would never have troubled himself with the
ill-mannered slut.

At all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the
whole affair. Unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could
not go back. He wanted passionately to get rid of the love that
obsessed him; it was degrading and hateful. He must prevent
himself from thinking of her. In a little while the anguish he
suffered must grow less. His mind went back to the past. He
wondered whether Emily Wilkinson and Fanny Price had endured on
his account anything like the torment that he suffered now. He
felt a pang of remorse.

"I didn't know then what it was like," he said to himself.

He slept very badly. The next day was Sunday, and he worked at
his biology. He sat with the book in front of him, forming the
words with his lips in order to fix his attention, but he could
remember nothing. He found his thoughts going back to Mildred
every minute, and he repeated to himself the exact words of the
quarrel they had had. He had to force himself back to his book.
He went out for a walk. The streets on the South side of the
river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy,
a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on
Sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and
depressed, they were indescribably dreary. Philip thought that
day would never end. But he was so tired that he slept heavily,
and when Monday came he entered upon life with determination.
Christmas was approaching, and a good many of the students had
gone into the country for the short holiday between the two
parts of the winter session; but Philip had refused his uncle's
invitation to go down to Blackstable. He had given the
approaching examination as his excuse, but in point of fact he
had been unwilling to leave London and Mildred. He had neglected
his work so much that now he had only a fortnight to learn what
the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to work
seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred.
He congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he
suffered was no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like
what one might be expected to feel if one had been thrown off a
horse and, though no bones were broken, were bruised all over
and shaken. Philip found that he was able to observe with
curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few
weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He was a little
amused at himself. One thing that struck him was how little
under those circumstances it mattered what one thought; the
system of personal philosophy, which had given him great
satisfaction to devise, had not served him. He was puzzled by
this.

But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so
like Mildred that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he
could not help himself, he hurried on to catch her up, eager and
anxious, only to find that it was a total stranger. Men came
back from the country, and he went with Dunsford to have tea at
an A. B. C. shop. The well-known uniform made him so miserable
that he could not speak. The thought came to him that perhaps
she had been transferred to another establishment of the firm
for which she worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to
face with her. The idea filled him with panic, so that he feared
Dunsford would see that something was the matter with him: he
could not think of anything to say; he pretended to listen to
what Dunsford was talking about; the conversation maddened him;
and it was all he could do to prevent himself from crying out to
Dunsford for Heaven's sake to hold his tongue.

Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn
arrived, went forward to the examiner's table with the utmost
confidence. He answered three or four questions. Then they
showed him various specimens; he had been to very few lectures
and, as soon as he was asked about things which he could not
learn from books, he was floored. He did what he could to hide
his ignorance, the examiner did not insist, and soon his ten
minutes were over. He felt certain he had passed; but next day,
when he went up to the examination buildings to see the result
posted on the door, he was astounded not to find his number
amoug those who had satisfied the examiners. In amazement he
read the list three times. Dunsford was with him.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry you're ploughed," he said.

He had just inquired Philip's number. Philip turned and saw by
his radiant face that Dunsford had passed.

"Oh, it doesn't matter a bit," said Philip. "I'm jolly glad
you're all right. I shall go up again in July."

He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way
back along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent
things. Dunsford good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of
Philip's failure, but Philip was obstinately casual. He was
horribly mortified; and the fact that Dunsford, whom he looked
upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid fellow, had passed made
his own rebuff harder to bear. He had always been proud of his
intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he
was not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself. In the three
months of the winter session the students who had joined in
October had already shaken down into groups, and it was clear
which were brilliant, which were clever or industrious, and
which were `rotters.' Philip was conscious that his failure was
a surprise to no one but himself. It was tea-time, and he knew
that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the
Medical School: those who had passed the examination would be
exultant, those who disliked him would look at him with
satisfaction, and the poor devils who had failed would
sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His instinct
was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair
would be no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go
just then, he went: he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself.
He forgot for the moment his maxim of life to follow his
inclinations with due regard for the policeman round the corner;
or, if he acted in accordance with it, there must have been some
strange morbidity in his nature which made him take a grim
pleasure in self-torture.

But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced
himself, going out into the night after the noisy conversation
in the smoking-room, he was seized with a feeling of utter
loneliness. He seemed to himself absurd and futile. He had an
urgent need of consolation, and the temptation to see Mildred
was irresistible. He thought bitterly that there was small
chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if
he did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would
be obliged to serve him. She was the only person in the world he
cared for. There was no use in hiding that fact from himself. Of
course it would be humiliating to go back to the shop as though
nothing had happened, but he had not much self-respect left.
Though he would not confess it to himself, he had hoped each day
that she would write to him; she knew that a letter addressed to
the hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was
evident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And
he kept on repeating to himself:

"I must see her. I must see her."

The desire was so great that he could not give the time
necessary to walk, but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to
use one when it could possibly be avoided. He stood outside the
shop for a minute or two. The thought came to him that perhaps
she had left, and in terror he walked in quickly. He saw her at
once. He sat down and she came up to him.

"A cup of tea and a muffin, please," he ordered.

He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was
going to cry.

"I almost thought you was dead," she said.

She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten
completely that last scene which Philip had repeated to himself
a hundred times.

"I thought if you'd wanted to see me you'd write," he answered.

"I've got too much to do to think about writing letters."

It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip
cursed the fate which chained him to such a woman. She went away
to fetch his tea.

"Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?" she said,
when she brought it.

"Yes."

"Where have you been all this time?"

"I've been in London."

"I thought you'd gone away for the holidays. Why haven't you
been in then?"

Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.

"Don't you remember that I said I'd never see you again?"

"What are you doing now then?"

She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his
humiliation; but he knew her well enough to know that she spoke
at random; she hurt him frightfully, and never even tried to. He
did not answer.

"It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that.
I always thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the
word."

"Don't be beastly to me, Mildred. I can't bear it."

"You are a funny feller. I can't make you out."

"It's very simple. I'm such a blasted fool as to love you with
all my heart and soul, and I know that you don't care twopence
for me."

"If you had been a gentleman I think you'd have come next day
and begged my pardon."

She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would
like to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew
enough anatomy to make pretty certain of getting the carotid
artery. And at the same time he wanted to cover her pale, thin
face with kisses.

"If I could only make you understand how frightfully I'm in love
with you."

"You haven't begged my pardon yet."

He grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on
that occasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very
proud. For one instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to
hell, but he dared not. His passion made him abject. He was
willing to submit to anything rather than not see her.

"I'm very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon."

He had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort.

"Now you've said that I don't mind telling you that I wish I had
come out with you that evening. I thought Miller was a
gentleman, but I've discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him
about his business."

Philip gave a little gasp.

"Mildred, won't you come out with me tonight? Let's go and dine
somewhere."

"Oh, I can't. My aunt'll be expecting me home."

"I'll send her a wire. You can say you've been detained in the
shop; she won't know any better. Oh, do come, for God's sake. I
haven't seen you for so long, and I want to talk to you."

She looked down at her clothes.

"Never mind about that. We'll go somewhere where it doesn't
matter how you're dressed. And we'll go to a music-hall
afterwards. Please say yes. It would give me so much pleasure."

She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully
appealing eyes.

"Well, I don't mind if I do. I haven't been out anywhere since
I don't know how long."

It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself
from seizing her hand there and then to cover it with kisses.


CHAPTER LX

THEY dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It was not
one of the more crowded of those cheap restaurants where the
respectable and needy dine in the belief that it is bohemian and
the assurance that it is economical. It was a humble
establishment, kept by a good man from Rouen and his wife, that
Philip had discovered by accident. He had been attracted by the
Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an uncooked
steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw
vegetables. There was one seedy French waiter, who was
attempting to learn English in a house where he never heard
anything but French; and the customers were a few ladies of easy
virtue, a _menage_ or two, who had their own napkins reserved
for them, and a few queer men who came in for hurried, scanty
meals.

Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to themselves.
Philip sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from the
neighbouring tavern, and they had a _potage aux herbes_, a
steak from the window _aux pommes_, and an _omelette au
kirsch_. There was really an air of romance in the meal and in
the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her
appreciation--"I never quite trust these foreign places, you
never know what there is in these messed up dishes"--was
insensibly moved hy it.

"I like this place, Philip," she said. "You feel you can put
your elbows on the table, don't you?"

A tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged
thin beard. He wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. He
nodded to Philip, who had met him there before.

"He looks like an anarchist," said Mildred.

"He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He's been in every
prison on the Continent and has assassinated more persons than
any gentleman unhung. He always goes about with a bomb in his
pocket, and of course it makes conversation a little difficult
because if you don't agree with him he lays it on the table in
a marked manner."

She looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced
suspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were laughing. She
frowned a little.

"You're getting at me."

He gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But Mildred
didn't like being laughed at.

"I don 't see anything funny in telling lies."

"Don't be cross."

He took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it
gently.

"You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you walk on," he
said.

The greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin
white lips had an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia made
her rather short of breath, and she held her mouth slightly
open. it seemed to add somehow to the attractiveness of her
face.

"You do like me a bit, don't you?" he asked.

"Well, if I didn't I suppose I shouldn't be here, should I?
You're a gentleman in every sense of the word, I will say that
for you."

They had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. Philip,
throwing economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar.

"You can't imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit
opposite and look at you. I've yearned for you. I was sick for
a sight of you."

Mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was not then
suffering from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her
immediately after a meal. She felt more kindly disposed to
Philip than ever before, and the unaccustomed tenderness in her
eyes filled him with joy. He knew instinctively that it was
madness to give himself into her hands; his only chance was to
treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed
passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take
advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he
told her all the agony he had endured during the separation from
her; he told her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried
to get over his passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he
found out that it was as strong as ever. He knew that he had
never really wanted to get over it. He loved her so much that he
did not mind suffering. He bared his heart to her. He showed her
proudly all his weakness.

Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy,
shabby restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted
entertainment. She was restless and, wherever she was, wanted
after a while to go somewhere else. He dared not bore her.

"I say, how about going to a music-hall?" he said.

He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would
say she preferred to stay there.

"I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going," she
answered.

"Come on then."

Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had
made up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the
cab he passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her
waist. But he drew it back quickly with a little cry. He had
pricked himself. She laughed.

"There, that comes of putting your arm where it's got no
business to be," she said. "I always know when men try and put
their arm round my waist. That pin always catches them."

"I'll be more careful."

He put his arm round again. She made no objection.

"I'm so comfortable," he sighed blissfully.

"So long as you're happy," she retorted.

They drove down St. James' Street into the Park, and Philip
quickly kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it
required all his courage. She turned her lips to him without
speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to like it.

"If you only knew how long I've wanted to do that," he murmured.

He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.

"Once is enough," she said.

On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to
Herne Hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she
lived he asked her:

"Won't you give me another kiss?"

She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to
see that no one was in sight.

"I don't mind."

He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she
pushed him away.

"Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy," she said.


CHAPTER LXI

HE SAW her then every day. He began going to lunch at the shop,
but Mildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he
had to content himself with tea; but he always waited about to
walk with her to the station; and once or twice a week they
dined together. He gave her little presents, a gold bangle,
gloves, handkerchiefs, and the like. He was spending more than
he could afford, but he could not help it: it was only when he
gave her anything that she showed any affection. She knew the
price of everything, and her gratitude was in exact proportion
with the value of his gift. He did not care. He was too happy
when she volunteered to kiss him to mind by what means he got
her demonstrativeness. He discovered that she found Sundays at
home tedious, so he went down to Herne Hill in the morning, met
her at the end of the road, and went to church with her.

"I always like to go to church once," she said. "it looks well,
doesn't it?"

Then she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel,
and in the afternoon they took a walk in Brockwell Park. They
had nothing much to say to one another, and Philip, desperately
afraid she was bored (she was very easily bored), racked his
brain for topics of conversation. He realised that these walks
amused neither of them, but he could not bear to leave her, and
did all he could to lengthen them till she became tired and out
of temper. He knew that she did not care for him, and he tried
to force a love which his reason told him was not in her nature:
she was cold. He had no claim on her, but he could not help
being exacting. Now that they were more intimate he found it
less easy to control his temper; he was often irritable and
could not help saying bitter things. Often they quarrelled, and
she would not speak to him for a while; but this always reduced
him to subjection, and he crawled before her. He was angry with
himself for showing so little dignity. He grew furiously jealous
if he saw her speaking to any other man in the shop, and when he
was jealous he seemed to be beside himself. He would
deliberately insult her, leave the shop and spend afterwards a
sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and
remorseful. Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for
forgiveness.

"Don't be angry with me," he said. "I'm so awfully fond of you
that I can't help myself."

"One of these days you'll go too far," she answered.

He was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater
intimacy should give him an advantage over the stray
acquaintances she made during her working-hours; but she would
not let him.

"My aunt would think it so funny," she said.

He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination
to let him see her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the
widow of a professional man (that was her formula of
distinction), and was uneasily conscious that the good woman
could hardly be called distinguished. Philip imagined that she
was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman. He knew
that Mildred was a snob. But he found no means by which he could
indicate to her that he did not mind how common the aunt was.

Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she
told him that a man had asked her to go to a play with him.
Philip turned pale, and his face grew hard and stern.

"You're not going?" he said.

"Why shouldn't I? He's a very nice gentlemanly fellow."

"I'll take you anywhere you like."

"But that isn't the same thing. I can't always go about with
you. Besides he's asked me to fix my own day, and I'll just go
one evening when I'm not going out with you. It won't make any
difference to you."

"If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you
wouldn't dream of going."

"I don't know what you mean by gratitude. if you're referring to
the things you've given me you can have them back. I don't want
them."

Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.

"It's not very lively, always going about with you. It's always
do you love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of
it."

(He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could
not help himself.

"Oh, I like you all right," she would answer.

"Is that all? I love you with all my heart."

"I'm not that sort, I'm not one to say much."

"If you knew how happy just one word would make me!"

"Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find
me, and if they don't like it they can lump it."

But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and,
when he asked the question, answered:

"Oh, don't go on at that again."

Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.)

And now he said:

"Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you
condescend to come out with me at all."

"It's not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just
force me to."

His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.

"You think I'm just good enough to stand you dinners and
theatres when there's no one else to do it, and when someone
else turns up I can go to hell. Thank you, I'm about sick of
being made a convenience."

"I'm not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I'll just
show you how much I want your dirty dinner."

She got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the
restaurant. Philip sat on. He determined he would not move, but
ten minutes afterwards he jumped in a cab and followed her. He
guessed that she would take a 'bus to Victoria, so that they
would arrive about the same time. He saw her on the platform,
escaped her notice, and went down to Herne Hill in the same
train. He did not want to speak to her till she was on the way
home and could not escape him.

As soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit
and noisy with traffic, he caught her up.

"Mildred," he called.

She walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. He
repeated her name. Then she stopped and faced him.

"What d'you want? I saw you hanging about Victoria. Why don't
you leave me alone?"

"I'm awfully sorry. Won't you make it up?"

"No, I'm sick of your temper and your jealousy. I don't care for
you, I never have cared for you, and I never shall care for you.
I don't want to have anything more to do with you."

She walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her.

"You never make allowances for me," he said. "It's all very well
to be jolly and amiable when you're indifferent to anyone. It's
very hard when you're as much in love as I am. Have mercy on me.
I don't mind that you don't care for me. After all you can't
help it. I only want you to let me love you."

She walked on, refusing to speak, and Philip saw with agony that
they had only a few hundred yards to go before they reached her
house. He abased himself. He poured out an incoherent story of
love and penitence.

"If you'll only forgive me this time I promise you you'll never
have to complain of me in future. You can go out with whoever
you choose. I'll be only too glad if you'll come with me when
you've got nothing better to do."

She stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he
always left her.

"Now you can take yourself off. I won't have you coming up to
the door."

"I won't go till you say you'll forgive me."

"I'm sick and tired of the whole thing."

He hesitated a moment, for he had an instinct that he could say
something that would move her. It made him feel almost sick to
utter the words.

"It is cruel, I have so much to put up with. You don't know what
it is to be a cripple. Of Course you don't like me. I can't
expect you to."

"Philip, I didn't mean that," she answered quickly, with a
sudden break of pity in her voice. "You know it's not true."

He was beginning to act now, and his voice was husky and low.

"Oh, I've felt it," he said.

She took his hand and looked at him, and her own eyes were
filled with tears.

"I promise you it never made any difference to me. I never
thought about it after the first day or two."

He kept a gloomy, tragic silence. He wanted her to think he was
overcome with emotion.

"You know I like you awfully, Philip. Only you are so trying
sometimes. Let's make it up."

She put up her lips to his, and with a sigh of relief he kissed
her.

"Now are you happy again?" she asked.

"Madly"

She bade him good-night and hurried down the road. Next day he
took her in a little watch with a brooch to pin on her dress.
She had been hankering for it.

But three or four days later, when she brought him his tea,
Mildred said to him:

"You remember what you promised the other night? You mean to
keep that, don't you?"

"Yes."

He knew exactly what she meant and was prepared for her next
words.

"Because I'm going out with that gentleman I told you about
tonight."

"All right. I hope you'll enjoy yourself."

"You don't mind, do you?"

He had himself now under excellent control.

"I don't like it," he smiled, "but I'm not going to make myself
more disagreeable than I can help."

She was excited over the outing and talked about it willingly.
Philip wondered whether she did so in order to pain him or
merely because she was callous. He was in the habit of condoning
her cruelty by the thought of her stupidity. She had not the
brains to see when she was wounding him.

"It's not much fun to be in love with a girl who has no
imagination and no sense of humour," he thought, as he listened.

But the want of these things excused her. He felt that if he had
not realised this he could never forgive her for the pain she
caused him.

"He's got seats for the Tivoli," she said. "He gave me my choice
and I chose that. And we're going to dine at the Cafe Royal. He
says it's the most expensive place in London."

"He's a gentleman in every sense of the word," thought Philip,
but he clenched his teeth to prevent himself from uttering a
syllable.

Philip went to the Tivoli and saw Mildred with her companion, a
smooth-faced young man with sleek hair and the spruce look of a
commercial traveller, sitting in the second row of the stalls.
Mildred wore a black picture hat with ostrich feathers in it,
which became her well. She was listening to her host with that
quiet smile which Philip knew; she had no vivacity of
expression, and it required broad farce to excite her laughter;
but Philip could see that she was interested and amused. He
thought to himself bitterly that her companion, flashy and
jovial, exactly suited her. Her sluggish temperament made her
appreciate noisy people. Philip had a passion for discussion,
but no talent for small-talk. He admired the easy drollery of
which some of his friends were masters, Lawson for instance, and
his sense of inferiority made him shy and awkward. The things
which interested him bored Mildred. She expected men to talk
about football and racing, and he knew nothing of either. He did
not know the catchwords which only need be said to excite a
laugh.

Printed matter had always been a fetish to Philip, and now, in
order to make himself more interesting, he read industriously
_The Sporting Times_.


CHAPTER LXII

PHILIP did not surrender himself willingly to the passion that
consumed him. He knew that all things human are transitory and
therefore that it must cease one day or another. He looked
forward to that day with eager longing. Love was like a parasite
in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his life's
blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that he could take
pleasure in nothing else. He had been used to delight in the
grace of St. James' Park, and often he sat and looked at the
branches of a tree silhouetted against the sky, it was like a
Japanese print; and he found a continual magic in the beautiful
Thames with its barges and its wharfs; the changing sky of
London had filled his soul with pleasant fancies. But now beauty
meant nothing to him. He was bored and restless when he was not
with Mildred. Sometimes he thought he would console his sorrow
by looking at pictures, but he walked through the National
Gallery like a sight-seer; and no picture called up in him a
thrill of emotion. He wondered if he could ever care again for
all the things he had loved. He had been devoted to reading, but
now books were meaningless; and he spent his spare hours in the
smoking-room of the hospital club, turning over innumerable
periodicals. This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly
the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he
longed for freedom.

Sometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul
leaped, for he thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in
a little while, as he grew wide awake, the pain settled in his
heart, and he knew that he was not cured yet. Though he yearned
for Mildred so madly he despised her. He thought to himself that
there could be no greater torture in the world than at the same
time to love and to contemn.

Philip, burrowing as was his habit into the state of his
feelings, discussing with himself continually his condition,
came to the conclusion that he could only cure himself of his
degrading passion by making Mildred his mistress. It was sexual
hunger that he suffered from, and if he could satisfy this he
might free himself from the intolerable chains that bound him.
He knew that Mildred did not care for him at all in that way.
When he kissed her passionately she withdrew herself from him
with instinctive distaste. She had no sensuality. Sometimes he
had tried to make her jealous by talking of adventures in Paris,
but they did not interest her; once or twice he had sat at other
tables in the tea-shop and affected to flirt with the waitress
who attended them, but she was entirely indifferent. He could
see that it was no pretence on her part.

"You didn't mind my not sitting at one of your tables this
afternoon?" he asked once, when he was walking to the station
with her. "Yours seemed to be all full."

This was not a fact, but she did not contradict him. Even if his
desertion meant nothing to her he would have been grateful if
she had pretended it did. A reproach would have been balm to his
soul.

"I think it's silly of you to sit at the same table every day.
You ought to give the other girls a turn now and again."

But the more he thought of it the more he was convinced that
complete surrender on her part was his only way to freedom. He
was like a knight of old, metamorphosed by magic spells, who
sought the potions which should restore him to his fair and
proper form. Philip had only one hope. Mildred greatly desired
to go to Paris. To her, as to most English people, it was the
centre of gaiety and fashion: she had heard of the Magasin du
Louvre, where you could get the very latest thing for about half
the price you had to pay in London; a friend of hers had passed
her honeymoon in Paris and had spent all day at the Louvre; and
she and her husband, my dear, they never went to bed till six in
the morning all the time they were there; the Moulin Rouge and
I don't know what all. Philip did not care that if she yielded
to his desires it would only be the unwilling price she paid for
the gratification of her wish. He did not care upon what terms
he satisfied his passion. He had even had a mad, melodramatic
idea to drug her. He had plied her with liquor in the hope of
exciting her, but she had no taste for wine; and though she
liked him to order champagne because it looked well, she never
drank more than half a glass. She liked to leave untouched a
large glass filled to the brim.

"It shows the waiters who you are," she said.

Philip chose an opportunity when she seemed more than usually
friendly. He had an examination in anatomy at the end of March.
Easter, which came a week later, would give Mildred three whole
days holiday.

"I say, why don't you come over to Paris then?" he suggested.
"We'd have such a ripping time."

"How could you? It would cost no end of money."

Philip had thought of that. It would cost at least
five-and-twenty pounds. It was a large sum to him. He was
willing to spend his last penny on her.

"What does that matter? Say you'll come, darling."

"What next, I should like to know. I can't see myself going away
with a man that I wasn't married to. You oughtn't to suggest
such a thing."

"What does it matter?"

He enlarged on the glories of the Rue de la Paix and the garish
splendour of the Folies Bergeres. He described the Louvre and
the Bon Marche. He told her about the Cabaret du Neant, the
Abbaye, and the various haunts to which foreigners go. He
painted in glowing colours the side of Paris which he despised.
He pressed her to come with him.

"You know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you'd
want to marry me. You've never asked me to marry you."

"You know I can't afford it. After all, I'm in my first year, I
shan't earn a penny for six years."

"Oh, I'm not blaming you. I wouldn't marry you if you went down
on your bended knees to me."

He had thought of marriage more than once, but it was a step
from which he shrank. In Paris he had come by the opinion that
marriage was a ridiculous institution of the philistines. He
knew also that a permanent tie would ruin him. He had
middle-class instincts, and it seemed a dreadful thing to him to
marry a waitress. A common wife would prevent him from getting
a decent practice. Besides, he had only just enough money to
last him till he was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if
they arranged not to have children. He thought of Cronshaw bound
to a vulgar slattern, and he shuddered with dismay . He foresaw
what Mildred, with her genteel ideas and her mean mind, would
become: it was impossible for him to marry her. But he decided
only with his reason; he felt that he must have her whatever
happened; and if he could not get her without marrying her he
would do that; the future could look after itself. It might end
in disaster; he did not care. When he got hold of an idea it
obsessed him, he could think of nothing else, and he had a more
than common power to persuade himself of the reasonableness of
what he wished to do. He found himself overthrowing all the
sensible arguments which had occurred to him against marriage.
Each day he found that he was more passionately devoted to her;
and his unsatisfied love became angry and resentful.

"By George, if I marry her I'll make her pay for all the
suffering I've endured," he said to himself.

At last he could bear the agony no longer. After dinner one
evening in the little restaurant in Soho, to which now they
often went, he spoke to her.

"I say, did you mean it the other day that you wouldn't marry me
if I asked you?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Because I can't live without you. I want you with me always.
I've tried to get over it and I can't. I never shall now. I want
you to marry me."

She had read too many novelettes not to know how to take such an
offer.

"I'm sure I'm very grateful to you, Philip. I'm very much
flattered at your proposal."

"Oh, don't talk rot. You will marry me, won't you?"

"D'you think we should be happy?"

"No. But what does that matter?"

The words were wrung out of him almost against his will. They
surprised her.

"Well, you are a funny chap. Why d'you want to marry me then?
The other day you said you couldn't afford it."

"I think I've got about fourteen hundred pounds left. Two can
live just as cheaply as one. That'll keep us till I'm qualified
and have got through with my hospital appointments, and then I
can get an assistantship."

"It means you wouldn't be able to earn anything for six years.
We should have about four pounds a week to live on till then,
shouldn't we?"

"Not much more than three. There are all my fees to pay."

"And what would you get as an assistant?"

"Three pounds a week."

"D'you mean to say you have to work all that time and spend a
small fortune just to earn three pounds a week at the end of it?
I don't see that I should be any better off than I am now."

He was silent for a moment.

"D'you mean to say you won't marry me?" he asked hoarsely. "Does
my great love mean nothing to you at all?"

"One has to think of oneself in those things, don't one? I
shouldn't mind marrying, but I don't want to marry if I'm going
to be no better off than what I am now. I don't see the use of
it."

"If you cared for me you wouldn't think of all that."

"P'raps not."

He was silent. He drank a glass of wine in order to get rid of
the choking in his throat.

"Look at that girl who's just going out," said Mildred. "She got
them furs at the Bon Marche at Brixton. I saw them in the window
last time I went down there."

Philip smiled grimly.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked. "It's true. And I said to
my aunt at the time, I wouldn't buy anything that had been in
the window like that, for everyone to know how much you paid for
it."

"I can't understand you. You make me frightfully unhappy, and in
the next breath you talk rot that has nothing to do with what
we're speaking about."

"You are nasty to me," she answered, aggrieved. "I can't help
noticing those furs, because I said to my aunt..."

"I don't care a damn what you said to your aunt," he interrupted
impatiently.

"I wish you wouldn't use bad language when you speak to me
Philip. You know I don't like it."

Philip smiled a little, but his eyes were wild. He was silent
for a while. He looked at her sullenly. He hated, despised, and
loved her.

"If I had an ounce of sense I'd never see you again," he said at
last. "If you only knew how heartily I despise myself for loving
you!"

"That's not a very nice thing to say to me," she replied
sulkily.

"It isn't," he laughed. "Let's go to the Pavilion."

"That's what's so funny in you, you start laughing just when one
doesn't expect you to. And if I make you that unhappy why d'you
want to take me to the Pavilion? I'm quite ready to go home."

"Merely because I'm less unhappy with you than away from you."

"I should like to know what you really think of me."

He laughed outright.

"My dear, if you did you'd never speak to me again."


CHAPTER LXIII

PHILIP did not pass the examination in anatomy at the end of
March. He and Dunsford had worked at the subject together on
Philip's skeleton, asking each other questions till both knew by
heart every attachment and the meaning of every nodule and
groove on the human bones; but in the examination room Philip
was seized with panic, and failed to give right answers to
questions from a sudden fear that they might be wrong. He knew
he was ploughed and did not even trouble to go up to the
building next day to see whether his number was up. The second
failure put him definitely among the incompetent and idle men of
his year.

He did not care much. He had other things to think of. He told
himself that Mildred must have senses like anybody else, it was
only a question of awakening them; he had theories about woman,
the rip at heart, and thought that there must come a time with
everyone when she would yield to persistence. It was a question
of watching for the opportunity, keeping his temper, wearing her
down with small attentions, taking advantage of the physical
exhaustion which opened the heart to tenderness, making himself
a refuge from the petty vexations of her work. He talked to her
of the relations between his friends in Paris and the fair
ladies they admired. The life he described had a charm, an easy
gaiety, in which was no grossness. Weaving into his own
recollections the adventures of Mimi and Rodolphe, of Musette
and the rest of them, he poured into Mildred's ears a story of
poverty made picturesque by song and laughter, of lawless love
made romantic by beauty and youth. He never attacked her
prejudices directly, but sought to combat them by the suggestion
that they were suburban. He never let himself be disturbed by
her inattention, nor irritated by her indifference. He thought
he had bored her. By an effort he made himself affable and
entertaining; he never let himself be angry, he never asked for
anything, he never complained, he never scolded. When she made
engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling
face; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. He
never let her see that she pained him. He understood that his
passionate grief had wearied her, and he took care to hide every
sentiment which could be in the least degree troublesome. He was
heroic.

Though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any
conscious notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became
more confidential with him; she took her little grievances to
him, and she always had some grievance against the manageress of
the shop, one of her fellow waitresses, or her aunt; she was
talkative enough now, and though she never said anything that
was not trivial Philip was never tired of listening to her.

"I like you when you don't want to make love to me," she told
him once.

"That's flattering for me," he laughed.

She did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what
an effort it needed for him to answer so lightly.

"Oh, I don't mind your kissing me now and then. It doesn't hurt
me and it gives you pleasure."

Occasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to
dinner, and the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture.

"I wouldn't do it to anyone else," she said, by way of apology.
"But I know I can with you."

"You couldn't give me greater pleasure," he smiled.

She asked him to give her something to eat one evening towards
the end of April.

"All right," he said. "Where would you like to go afterwards?"

"Oh, don't let's go anywhere. Let's just sit and talk. You don't
mind, do you?"

"Rather not."

He thought she must be beginning to care for him. Three months
before the thought of an evening spent in conversation would
have bored her to death. It was a fine day, and the spring added
to Philip's high spirits. He was content with very little now.

"I say, won't it be ripping when the summer comes along," he
said, as they drove along on the top of a 'bus to Soho--she had
herself suggested that they should not be so extravagant as to
go by cab. "We shall be able to spend every Sunday on the river.
We'll take our luncheon in a basket."

She smiled slightly, and he was encouraged to take her hand. She
did not withdraw it.

"I really think you're beginning to like me a bit," he smiled.

"You _are_ silly, you know I like you, or else I shouldn't be
here, should I?"

They were old customers at the little restaurant in Soho by now,
and the _patronne_ gave them a smile as they came in. The
waiter was obsequious.

"Let me order the dinner tonight," said Mildred.

Philip, thinking her more enchanting than ever, gave her the
menu, and she chose her favourite dishes. The range was small,
and they had eaten many times all that the restaurant could
provide. Philip was gay. He looked into her eyes, and he dwelt
on every perfection of her pale cheek. When they had finished
Mildred by way of exception took a cigarette. She smoked very
seldom.

"I don't like to see a lady smoking," she said.

She hesitated a moment and then spoke.

"Were you surprised, my asking you to take me out and give me a
bit of dinner tonight?"

"I was delighted."

"I've got something to say to you, Philip."

He looked at her quickly, his heart sank, but he had trained
himself well.

"Well, fire away," he said, smiling.

"You're not going to be silly about it, are you? The fact is I'm
going to get married."

"Are you?" said Philip.

He could think of nothing else to say. He had considered the
possibility often and had imagined to himself what he would do
and say. He had suffered agonies when he thought of the despair
he would suffer, he had thought of suicide, of the mad passion
of anger that would seize him; but perhaps he had too completely
anticipated the emotion he would experience, so that now he felt
merely exhausted. He felt as one does in a serious illness when
the vitality is so low that one is indifferent to the issue and
wants only to be left alone.

"You see, I'm getting on," she said. "I'm twenty-four and it's
time I settled down."

He was silent. He looked at the _patronne_ sitting behind the
counter, and his eye dwelt on a red feather one of the diners
wore in her hat. Mildred was nettled.

"You might congratulate me," she said.

"I might, mightn't I? I can hardly believe it's true. I've
dreamt it so often. It rather tickles me that I should have been
so jolly glad that you asked me to take you out to dinner. Whom
are you going to marry?"

"Miller," she answered, with a slight blush.

"Miller?" cried Philip, astounded. "But you've not seen him for
months."

"He came in to lunch one day last week and asked me then. He's
earning very good money. He makes seven pounds a week now and
he's got prospects."

Philip was silent again. He remembered that she had always liked
Miller; he amused her; there was in his foreign birth an exotic
charm which she felt unconsciously.

"I suppose it was inevitable," he said at last. "You were bound
to accept the highest bidder. When are you going to marry?"

"On Saturday next. I have given notice."

Philip felt a sudden pang.

"As soon as that?"

"We're going to be married at a registry office. Emil prefers
it."

Philip felt dreadfully tired. He wanted to get away from her. He
thought he would go straight to bed. He called for the bill.

"I'll put you in a cab and send you down to Victoria. I daresay
you won't have to wait long for a train."

"Won't you come with me?"

"I think I'd rather not if you don't mind."

"It's just as you please," she answered haughtily. "I suppose I
shall see you at tea-time tomorrow?"

"No, I think we'd better make a full stop now. I don't see why
I should go on making myself unhappy. I've paid the cab."

He nodded to her and forced a smile on his lips, then jumped on
a 'bus and made his way home. He smoked a pipe before he went to
bed, but he could hardly keep his eyes open. He suffered no
pain. He fell into a heavy sleep almost as soon as his head
touched the pillow.


CHAPTER LXIV

BUT about three in the morning Philip awoke and could not sleep
again. He began to think of Mildred. He tried not to, but could
not help himself. He repeated to himself the same thing time
after time till his brain reeled. It was inevitable that she
should marry: life was hard for a girl who had to earn her own
living; and if she found someone who could give her a
comfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted.
Philip acknowledged that from her point of view it would have
been madness to marry him: only love could have made such
poverty bearable, and she did not love him. It was no fault of
hers; it was a fact that must be accepted like any other. Philip
tried to reason with himself. He told himself that deep down in
his heart was mortified pride; his passion had begun in wounded
vanity, and it was this at bottom which caused now a great part
of his wretchedness. He despised himself as much as he despised
her. Then he made plans for the future, the same plans over and
over again, interrupted by recollections of kisses on her soft
pale cheek and by the sound of her voice with its trailing
accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since in the Summer
he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations he had
failed in. He had separated himself from his friends at the
hospital, but now he wanted companionship. There was one happy
occurrence: Hayward a fortnight before had written to say that
he was passing through London and had asked him to dinner; but
Philip, unwilling to be bothered, had refused. He was coming
back for the season, and Philip made up his mind to write to
him.

He was thankful when eight o'clock struck and he could get up.
He was pale and weary. But when he had bathed, dressed, and had
breakfast, he felt himself joined up again with the world at
large; and his pain was a little easier to bear. He did not feel
like going to lectures that morning, but went instead to the
Army and Navy Stores to buy Mildred a wedding-present. After
much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. It cost twenty
pounds, which was much more than he could afford, but it was
showy and vulgar: he knew she would be aware exactly how much it
cost; he got a melancholy satisfaction in choosing a gift which
would give her pleasure and at the same time indicate for
himself the contempt he had for her.

Philip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which
Mildred was to be married; he was expecting an intolerable
anguish; and it was with relief that he got a letter from
Hayward on Saturday morning to say that he was coming up early
on that very day and would fetch Philip to help him to find
rooms. Philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up a time-table
and discovered the only train Hayward was likely to come by; he
went to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was
enthusiastic. They left the luggage at the station, and set off
gaily. Hayward characteristically proposed that first of all
they should go for an hour to the National Gallery; he had not
seen pictures for some time, and he stated that it needed a
glimpse to set him in tune with life. Philip for months had had
no one with whom he could talk of art and books. Since the Paris
days Hayward had immersed himself in the modern French
versifiers, and, such a plethora of poets is there in France, he
had several new geniuses to tell Philip about. They walked
through the gallery pointing out to one another their favourite
pictures; one subject led to another; they talked excitedly. The
sun was shining and the air was warm.

"Let's go and sit in the Park," said Hayward. "We'll look for
rooms after luncheon."

The spring was pleasant there. It was a day upon which one felt
it good merely to live. The young green of the trees was
exquisite against the sky; and the sky, pale and blue, was
dappled with little white clouds. At the end of the ornamental
water was the gray mass of the Horse Guards. The ordered
elegance of the scene had the charm of an eighteenth-century
picture. It reminded you not of Watteau, whose landscapes are so
idyllic that they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams,
but of the more prosaic Jean-Baptiste Pater. Philip's heart was
filled with lightness. He realised, what he had only read
before, that art (for there was art in the manner in which he
looked upon nature) might liberate the soul from pain.

They went to an Italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered
themselves a _fiaschetto_ of Chianti. Lingering over the meal
they talked on. They reminded one another of the people they had
known at Heidelberg, they spoke of Philip's friends in Paris,
they talked of books, pictures, morals, life; and suddenly
Philip heard a clock strike three. He remembered that by this
time Mildred was married. He felt a sort of stitch in his heart,
and for a minute or two he could not hear what Hayward was
saying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was
unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone to his head. For the
time at all events he was free from care. His quick brain had
lain idle for so many months that he was intoxicated now with
conversation. He was thankful to have someone to talk to who
would interest himself in the things that interested him.

"I say don't let's waste this beautiful day in looking for
rooms. I'll put you up tonight. You can look for rooms tomorrow
or Monday."

"All right. What shall we do?" answered Hayward.

"Let's get on a penny steamboat and go down to Greenwich."

The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which
took them to Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just
as she was starting. Presently Philip, a smile on his lips,
spoke.

"I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was,
gave a long discourse on the subject that beauty is put into
things by painters and poets. They create beauty. In themselves
there is nothing to choose between the Campanile of Giotto and
a factory chimney. And then beautiful things grow rich with the
emotion that they have aroused in succeeding generations. That
is why old things are more beautiful than modern. The _Ode on
a Grecian Urn_ is more lovely now than when it was written,
because for a hundred years lovers have read it and the sick at
heart taken comfort in its lines."

Philip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene had
suggested these words to him, and it was a delight to know that
he could safely leave the inference. It was in sudden reaction
from the life he had been leading for so long that he was now
deeply affected. The delicate iridescence of the London air gave
the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of the buildings; and
in the wharfs and storehouses there was the severity of grace of
a Japanese print. They went further down; and the splendid
channel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was
crowded with traffic; Philip thought of the painters and the
poets who had made all these things so beautiful, and his heart
was filled with gratitude. They came to the Pool of London, and
who can describe its majesty? The imagination thrills, and
Heaven knows what figures people still its broad stream, Doctor
Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old Pepys going on board a
man-o'-war: the pageant of English history, and romance, and
high adventure. Philip turned to Hayward with shining eyes.

"Dear Charles Dickens," he murmured, smiling a little at his own
emotion.

"Aren't you rather sorry you chucked painting?" asked Hayward.

"No."

"I suppose you like doctoring?"

"No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery
of the first two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven't got
the scientific temperament."

"Well, you can't go on changing professions."

"Oh, no. I'm going to stick to this. I think I shall like it
better when I get into the wards. I have an idea that I'm more
interested in people than in anything else in the world. And as
far as I can see, it's the only profession in which you have
your freedom. You carry your knowledge in your head; with a box
of instruments and a few drugs you can make your living
anywhere."

"Aren't you going to take a practice then?"

"Not for a good long time at any rate," Philip answered. "As
soon as I've got through my hospital appointments I shall get a
ship; I want to go to the East--the Malay Archipelago, Siam,
China, and all that sort of thing--and then I shall take odd
jobs. Something always comes along, cholera duty in India and
things like that. I want to go from place to place. I want to
see the world. The only way a poor man can do that is by going
in for the medical."

They came to Greenwich then. The noble building of Inigo Jones
faced the river grandly.

"I say, look, that must be the place where Poor Jack dived into
the mud for pennies," said Philip.

They wandered in the park. Ragged children were playing in it,
and it was noisy with their cries: here and there old seamen
were basking in the sun. There was an air of a hundred years
ago.

"It seems a pity you wasted two years in Paris," said Hayward.

"Waste? Look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern
which the sun makes on the ground, shining through the trees,
look at that sky--why, I should never have seen that sky if I
hadn't been to Paris."

Hayward thought that Philip choked a sob, and he looked at him
with astonishment.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six
months I've been starved for beauty."

"You used to be so matter of fact. It's very interesting to hear
you say that."

"Damn it all, I don't want to be interesting," laughed Philip.
"Let's go and have a stodgy tea."


CHAPTER LXV

HAYWARD'S visit did Philip a great deal of good. Each day his
thoughts dwelt less on Mildred. He looked back upon the past
with disgust. He could not understand how he had submitted to
the dishonour of such a love; and when he thought of Mildred it
was with angry hatred, because she had submitted him to so much
humiliation. His imagination presented her to him now with her
defects of person and manner exaggerated, so that he shuddered
at the thought of having been connected with her.

"It just shows how damned weak I am," he said to himself. The
adventure was like a blunder that one had committed at a party
so horrible that one felt nothing could be done to excuse it:
the only remedy was to forget. His horror at the degradation he
had suffered helped him. He was like a snake casting its skin
and he looked upon the old covering with nausea. He exulted in
the possession of himself once more; he realised how much of the
delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that
madness which they called love; he had had enough of it; he did
not want to be in love any more if love was that. Philip told
Hayward something of what he had gone through.

"Wasn't it Sophocles," he asked, "who prayed for the time when
he would be delivered from the wild beast of passion that
devoured his heart-strings?"

Philip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the
circumambient air as though he had never breathed it before, and
he took a child's pleasure in all the facts of the world. He
called his period of insanity six months' hard labour.

Hayward had only been settled in London a few days when Philip
received from Blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a
private view at some picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on
looking at the catalogue, saw that Lawson had a picture in it.

"I suppose he sent the card," said Philip. "Let's go and find
him, he's sure to be in front of his picture."

This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner,
and Lawson was not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his
large soft hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable
throng that had gathered for the private view. He greeted Philip
with enthusiasm, and with his usual volubility told him that he
had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice was a hussy, he had
taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commission for a
portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old
talk. Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and
was entertained to see that Lawson was slightly awed by
Hayward's elegant clothes and grand manner. They sat upon him
better than they had done in the shabby little studio which
Lawson and Philip had shared.

At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back
to America. Clutton had disappeared. He had come to the
conclusion that a man had no chance of doing anything so long as
he was in contact with art and artists: the only thing was to
get right away. To make the step easier he had quarrelled with
all his friends in Paris. He developed a talent for telling them
home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his declaration
that he had done with that city and was settling in Gerona, a
little town in the north of Spain which had attracted him when
he saw it from the train on his way to Barcelona. He was living
there now alone.

"I wonder if he'll ever do any good," said Philip.

He was interested in the human side of that struggle to express
something which was so obscure in the man's mind that he was
become morbid and querulous. Philip felt vaguely that he was
himself in the same case, but with him it was the conduct of his
life as a whole that perplexed him. That was his means of
self-expression, and what he must do with it was not clear. But
he had no time to continue with this train of thought, for
Lawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with Ruth
Chalice. She had left him for a young student who had just come
from England, and was behaving in a scandalous fashion. Lawson
really thought someone ought to step in and save the young man.
She would ruin him. Philip gathered that Lawson's chief
grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of a
portrait he was painting.

"Women have no real feeling for art," he said. "They only
pretend they have." But he finished philosophically enough:
"However, I got four portraits out of her, and I'm not sure if
the last I was working on would ever have been a success."

Philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love
affairs. He had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had
got an excellent model for nothing, and had parted from her at
the end with no great pang.

"And what about Cronshaw?" asked Philip.

"Oh, he's done for," answered Lawson, with the cheerful
callousness of his youth. "He'll be dead in six months. He got
pneumonia last winter. He was in the English hospital for seven
weeks, and when he came out they told him his only chance was to
give up liquor."

"Poor devil," smiled the abstemious Philip.

"He kept off for a bit. He used to go to the Lilas all the same,
he couldn't keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk,
_avec de la fleur d'oranger_, and he was damned dull."

"I take it you did not conceal the fact from him."

"Oh, he knew it himself. A little while ago he started on
whiskey again. He said he was too old to turn over any new
leaves. He would rather be happy for six months and die at the
end of it than linger on for five years. And then I think he's
been awfully hard up lately. You see, he didn't earn anything
while he was ill, and the slut he lives with has been giving him
a rotten time."

"I remember, the first time I saw him I admired him awfully,"
said Philip. "I thought he was wonderful. It is sickening that
vulgar, middle-class virtue should pay."

"Of course he was a rotter. He was bound to end in the gutter
sooner or later," said Lawson.

Philip was hurt because Lawson would not see the pity of it. Of
Course it was cause and effect, but in the necessity with which
one follows the other lay all tragedy of life.

"Oh, I' d forgotten," said Lawson. "Just after you left he sent
round a present for you. I thought you'd be coming back and I
didn't bother about it, and then I didn't think it worth sending
on; but it'll come over to London with the rest of my things,
and you can come to my studio one day and fetch it away if you
want it."

"You haven't told me what it is yet."

"Oh, it's only a ragged little bit of carpet. I shouldn't think
it's worth anything. I asked him one day what the devil he'd
sent the filthy thing for. He told me he'd seen it in a shop in
the Rue de Rennes and bought it for fifteen francs. It appears
to be a Persian rug. He said you'd asked him the meaning of life
and that was the answer. But he was very drunk."

Philip laughed.

"Oh yes, I know. I'll take it. It was a favourite wheeze of his.
He said I must find out for myself, or else the answer meant
nothing."


CHAPTER LXVI

PHILIP worked well and easily; he had a good deal to do, since
he was taking in July the three parts of the First Conjoint
examination, two of which he had failed in before; but he found
life pleasant. He made a new friend. Lawson, on the lookout for
models, had discovered a girl who was understudying at one of
the theatres, and in order to induce her to sit to him arranged
a little luncheon-party one Sunday. She brought a chaperon with
her; and to her Philip, asked to make a fourth, was instructed
to confine his attentions. He found this easy, since she turned
out to be an agreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. She
asked Philip to go and see her; she had rooms in Vincent Square,
and was always in to tea at five o'clock; he went, was delighted
with his welcome, and went again. Mrs. Nesbit was not more than
twenty-five, very small, with a pleasant, ugly face; she had
very bright eyes, high cheekbones, and a large mouth: the
excessive contrasts of her colouring reminded one of a portrait
by one of the modern French painters; her skin was very white,
her cheeks were very red, her thick eyebrows, her hair, were
very black. The effect was odd, a little unnatural, but far from
unpleasing. She was separated from her husband and earned her
living and her child's by writing penny novelettes. There were
one or two publishers who made a specialty of that sort of
thing, and she had as much work as she could do. It was
ill-paid, she received fifteen pounds for a story of thirty
thousand words; but she was satisfied.

"After all, it only costs the reader twopence," she said, "and
they like the same thing over and over again. I just change the
names and that's all. When I'm bored I think of the washing and
the rent and clothes for baby, and I go on again."

Besides, she walked on at various theatres where they wanted
supers and earned by this when in work from sixteen shillings to
a guinea a week. At the end of her day she was so tired that she
slept like a top. She made the best of her difficult lot. Her
keen sense of humour enabled her to get amusement out of every
vexatious circumstance. Sometimes things went wrong, and she
found herself with no money at all; then her trifling
possessions found their way to a pawnshop in the Vauxhall Bridge
Road, and she ate bread and butter till things grew brighter.
She never lost her cheerfulness.

Philip was interested in her shiftless life, and she made him
laugh with the fantastic narration of her struggles. He asked
her why she did not try her hand at literary work of a better
sort, but she knew that she had no talent, and the abominable
stuff she turned out by the thousand words was not only
tolerably paid, but was the best she could do. She had nothing
to look forward to but a continuation of the life she led. She
seemed to have no relations, and her friends were as poor as
herself.

"I don't think of the future," she said. "As long as I have
enough money for three weeks' rent and a pound or two over for
food I never bother. Life wouldn't be worth living if I worried
over the future as well as the present. When things are at their
worst I find something always happens."

Soon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every
day, and so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in
a cake or a pound of butter or some tea. They started to call
one another by their Christian names. Feminine sympathy was new
to him, and he delighted in someone who gave a willing ear to
all his troubles. The hours went quickly. He did not hide his
admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not
help comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the
one's obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything
she did not know, the other's quick appreciation and ready
intelligence. His heart sank when he thought that he might have
been tied for life to such a woman as Mildred. One evening he
told Norah the whole story of his love. It was not one to give
him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to
receive such charming sympathy.

"I think you're well out of it," she said, when he had finished.

She had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side
like an Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair,
sewing, for she had no time to do nothing, and Philip had made
himself comfortable at her feet.

"I can't tell you how heartily thankful I am it's all over," he
sighed.

"Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time," she murmured, and
by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder.

He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, with a blush.

"Have you any objection?"

She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she
smiled.

"No," she said.

He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes
steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a smile.

"Well?" she said.

"You know, you are a ripper. I'm so grateful to you for being
nice to me. I like you so much."

"Don't be idiotic," she said.

Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She
made no resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her
red lips.

"Why did you do that?" she asked again.

"Because it's comfortable."

She did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and
she passed her hand softly over his hair.

"You know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like this. We
were such good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at
that."

"If you really want to appeal to my better nature," replied
Philip, "you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're
doing it."

She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop.

"It's very wrong of me, isn't it?" she said.

Philip, surprised and a little amused, looked into her eyes, and
as he looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and there was
an expression in them that enchanted him. His heart was suddenly
stirred, and tears came to his eyes.

"Norah, you're not fond of me, are you?" he asked,
incredulously.

"You clever boy, you ask such stupid questions."

"Oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could be."

He flung his arms round her and kissed her, while she, laughing,
blushing, and crying, surrendered herself willingly to his
embrace.

Presently he released her and sitting back on his heels looked
at her curiously.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he said.

"Why?"

"I'm so surprised."

"And pleased?"

"Delighted," he cried with all his heart, "and so proud and so
happy and so grateful."

He took her hands and covered them with kisses. This was the
beginning for Philip of a happiness which seemed both solid and
durable. They became lovers but remained friends. There was in
Norah a maternal instinct which received satisfaction in her
love for Philip; she wanted someone to pet, and scold, and make
a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found pleasure in
looking after his health and his linen. She pitied his
deformity, over which he was so sensitive, and her pity
expressed itself instinctively in tenderness. She was young,
strong, and healthy, and it seemed quite natural to her to give
her love. She had high spirits and a merry soul. She liked
Philip because he laughed with her at all the amusing things in
life that caught her fancy, and above all she liked him because
he was he.

When she told him this he answered gaily:

"Nonsense. You like me because I'm a silent person and never
want to get a word in."

Philip did not love her at all. He was extremely fond of her,
glad to be with her, amused and interested by her conversation.
She restored his belief in himself and put healing ointments, as
it were, on all the bruises of his soul. He was immensely
flattered that she cared for him. He admired her courage, her
optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had a little
philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical.

"You know, I don't believe in churches and parsons and all
that," she said, "but I believe in God, and I don't believe He
minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and
help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people on
the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry for those who aren't."

"And what about afterwards?" asked Philip.

"Oh, well, I don't know for certain, you know," she smiled, "but
I hope for the best. And anyhow there'll be no rent to pay and
no novelettes to write."

She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She thought that
Philip did a brave thing when he left Paris because he was
conscious he could not be a great artist; and he was enchanted
when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him. He had never
been quite certain whether this action indicated courage or
infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realise that she
considered it heroic. She ventured to tackle him on a subject
which his friends instinctively avoided.

"It's very silly of you to be so sensitive about your
club-foot," she said. She saw him bush darkly, but went on. "You
know, people don't think about it nearly as much as you do. They
notice it the first time they see you, and then they forget
about it."

He would not answer.

"You're not angry with me, are you?"

"No."

She put her arm round his neck.

"You know, I only speak about it because I love you. I don't
want it to make you unhappy."

"I think you can say anything you choose to me," he answered,
smiling. "I wish I could do something to show you how grateful
I am to you."

She took him in hand in other ways. She would not let him be
bearish and laughed at him when he was out of temper. She made
him more urbane.

"You can make me do anything you like," he said to her once.

"D'you mind?"

"No, I want to do what you like."

He had the sense to realise his happiness. It seemed to him that
she gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved his
freedom; she was the most charming friend he had ever had, with
a sympathy that he had never found in a man. The sexual
relationship was no more than the strongest link in their
friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because
Philip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and
easier to live with. He felt in complete possession of himself.
He thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been
obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing
for Mildred and with horror of himself.

His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested
in them as he. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness.
She made him promise to come at once and tell her the results.
He passed the three parts this time without mishap, and when he
went to tell her she burst into tears.

"Oh, I'm so glad, I was so anxious."

"You silly little thing," he laughed, but he was choking.

No one could help being pleased with the way she took it.

"And what are you going to do now?" she asked.

"I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to
do till the winter session begins in October."

"I suppose you'll go down to your uncle's at Blackstable?"

"You suppose quite wrong. I'm going to stay in London and play
with you."

"I'd rather you went away."

"Why? Are you tired of me?"

She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Because you've been working hard, and you look utterly washed
out. You want some fresh air and a rest. Please go."

He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving
eyes.

"You know, I'd never believe it of anyone but you. You're only
thinking of my good. I wonder what you see in me."

"Will you give me a good character with my month's notice?" she
laughed gaily.

"I'll say that you're thoughtful and kind, and you're not
exacting; you never worry, you're not troublesome, and you're
easy to please."

"All that's nonsense," she said, "but I'll tell you one thing:
I'm one of the few persons I ever met who are able to learn from
experience."


CHAPTER LXVII

PHILIP looked forward to his return to London with impatience.
During the two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him
frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with
cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily
round, the domestic troubles of her landlady, rich food for
laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals--she was walking
on in an important spectacle at one of the London theatres--and
her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. Philip
read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the
beginning of October he settled down in London to work for the
Second Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that
ended the drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the
student became an out-patients' clerk, and was brought in
contact with men and women as well as with text-books. Philip
saw Norah every day.

Lawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number
of sketches to show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a
couple of commissions for portraits and proposed to stay in
London till the bad light drove him away. Hayward, in London
too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but remained week
after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go.
Hayward had run to fat during the last two or three years--it
was five years since Philip first met him in Heidelberg--and he
was prematurely bald. He was very sensitive about it and wore
his hair long to conceal the unsightly patch on the crown of his
head. His only consolation was that his brow was now very noble.
His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had a listless droop;
and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale.
He still talked vaguely of the things he was going to do in the
future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his
friends no longer believed in him: when he had drank two or
three glasses of whiskey he was inclined to be elegiac.

"I'm a failure," he murmured, "I'm unfit for the brutality of
the struggle of life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the
vulgar throng hustle by in their pursuit of the good things."

He gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a
more exquisite thing, than to succeed. He insinuated that his
aloofness was due to distaste for all that was common and low.
He talked beautifully of Plato.

"I should have thought you'd got through with Plato by now,"
said Philip impatiently.

"Would you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

He was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of
late the effective dignity of silence.

"I don't see the use of reading the same thing over and over
again," said Philip. "That's only a laborious form of idleness."

"But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind
that you can understand the most profound writer at a first
reading?"

"I don't want to understand him, I'm not a critic. I'm not
interested in him for his sake but for mine."

"Why d'you read then?"

"Partly for pleasure, because it's a habit and I'm just as
uncomfortable if I don't read as if I don't smoke, and partly to
know myself. When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes
only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a
phrase, which has a meaning for _me_, and it becomes part of
me; I've got out of the book all that's any use to me, and I
can't get anything more if I read it a dozen times. You see, it
seems to me, one's like a closed bud, and most of what one reads
and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that
have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and
the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there."

Philip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know
how else to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear
about.

"You want to do things, you want to become things," said
Hayward, with a shrug of the shoulders. "It's so vulgar."

Philip knew Hayward very well by now. He was weak and vain, so
vain that you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his
feelings; he mingled idleness and idealism so that he could not
separate them. At Lawson's studio one day he met a journalist,
who was charmed by his conversation, and a week later the editor
of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do some criticism for
him. For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of
indecision. He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so
long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the
thought of doing anything filled him with panic. At last he
declined the offer and breathed freely.

"It would have interfered with my work," he told Philip.

"What work?" asked Philip brutally.

"My inner life," he answered.

Then he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the
professor of Geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which
was never fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure
and the excuse were at once manifest in the minute, wonderful
journal which was found among his papers. Hayward smiled
enigmatically.

But Hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste
was exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a
constant interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining
companion. They meant nothing to him really, since they never
had any effect on him; but he treated them as he might have
pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with pleasure
in their shape and their glaze, pricing them in his mind; and
then, putting them back into their case, thought of them no
more.

And it was Hayward who made a momentous discovery. One evening,
after due preparation, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern
situated in Beak Street, remarkable not only in itself and for
its history--it had memories of eighteenth-century glories which
excited the romantic imagination--but for its snuff, which was
the best in London, and above all for its punch. Hayward led
them into a large, long room, dingily magnificent, with huge
pictures on the walls of nude women: they were vast allegories
of the school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London
atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like
old masters. The dark panelling, the massive, tarnished gold of
the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of
sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall
were soft and easy. There was a ram's head on a table opposite
the door, and this contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered
punch. They drank it. it was hot rum punch. The pen falters when
it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober
vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate
to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to
the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it
filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to
utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the
vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of
its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth
of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to
be described in words. Charles Lamb, with his infinite tact,
attempting to, might have drawn charming pictures of the life of
his day; Lord Byron in a stanza of Don Juan, aiming at the
impossible, might have achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde,
heaping jewels of ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have
created a troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled
under visions of the feasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle
harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty, fragrant romance of
chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs, hose,
doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies
of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese.

Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage
was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man called
Macalister who had been at Cambridge with him. He was a
stockbroker and a philosopher. He was accustomed to go to the
tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and Hayward got
into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change of
manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to
persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a
big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large,
fleshy face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and
judged everything from the standpoint of pure reason. He was
fond of expounding his doctrines. Philip listened with excited
interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing amused
him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their
efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat little system which he
had formed as the result of his meditations at Blackstable had
not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for Mildred.
He could not be positive that reason was much help in the
conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He
remembered very vividly the violence of the emotion which had
possessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the
ground with ropes, to react against it. He read many wise things
in books, but he could only judge from his own experience (he
did not know whether he was different from other people); he did
not calculate the pros and cons of an action, the benefits which
must befall him if he did it, the harm which might result from
the omission; but his whole being was urged on irresistibly. He
did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The power
that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all
that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what
his whole soul was striving for.

Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.

"Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming
a universal rule of action for all men."

"That seems to me perfect nonsense," said Philip.

"You're a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel
Kant," retorted Macalister.

"Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality:
there's a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant
thought things not because they were true, but because he was
Kant."

"Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?"
(They talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)

"It suggests that one can choose one's course by an effort of
will. And it suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why
should its dictates be any better than those of passion? They're
different. That's all."

"You seem to be a contented slave of your passions."

"A slave because I can't help myself, but not a contented one,"
laughed Philip.

While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven
him in pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed
against it and how he had felt the degradation of it.

"Thank God, I'm free from all that now," he thought.

And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he
spoke sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he
had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked with
unwonted force. He was more alive, there was an excitement in
sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which made life now a
trifle dull. For all the misery he had endured there was a
compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence.

But Philip's unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the
freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored
memory, brought out argument after argument. He had a mind that
delighted in dialectics, and he forced Philip to contradict
himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only
escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and
battered him with authorities.

At last Philip said:

"Well, I can't say anything about other people. I can only speak
for myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind
that I can't get away from it, but I believe it is only an
illusion. But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest
motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have
choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the
thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all
eternity."

"What do you deduce from that?" asked Hayward.

"Why, merely the futility of regret. It's no good crying over
spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on
spilling it."


CHAPTER LXVIII

ONE morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going
back to bed suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached
and he shivered with cold. When the landlady brought in his
breakfast he called to her through the open door that he was not
well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. A few
minutes later there was a knock at his door, and Griffiths came
in. They had lived in the same house for over a year, but had
never done more than nod to one another in the passage.

"I say, I hear you're seedy," said Griffiths. "I thought I'd
come in and see what was the matter with you."

Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing.
He would be all right in an hour or two.

"Well, you'd better let me take your temperature," said
Griffiths.

"It's quite unnecessary," answered Philip irritably.

"Come on."

Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the
side of the bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took
it out and looked at it.

"Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I'll bring
old Deacon in to have a look at you."

"Nonsense," said Philip. "There's nothing the matter. I wish you
wouldn't bother about me."

"But it isn't any bother. You've got a temperature and you must
stay in bed. You will, won't you?"

There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity
and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.

"You've got a wonderful bed-side manner," Philip murmured,
closing his eyes with a smile.

Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the
bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip's
sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and
fetched it from his own room. He drew down the blind.

"Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round as soon as
he's done the wards."

It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as
if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he
was going to cry. Then there was a knock at the door and
Griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.

"Here's Doctor Deacon," he said.

The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland
manner, whom Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief
examination, and the diagnosis.

"What d'you make it?" he asked Griffiths, smiling.

"Influenza."

"Quite right."

Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.

"Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll put you in a
private ward, and you can be better looked after than you can
here."

"I'd rather stay where I am," said Philip.

He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new
surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the
dreary cleanliness of the hospital.

"I can look after him, sir," said Griffiths at once.

"Oh, very well."

He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.

"Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you," said Griffiths.
"I'm day-nurse and night-nurse all in one."

"It's very kind of you, but I shan't want anything," said
Philip.

Griffiths put his hand on Philip's forehead, a large cool, dry
hand, and the touch seemed to him good.

"I'm just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it
made up, and then I'll come back."

In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a
dose. Then he went upstairs to fetch his books.

"You won't mind my working in your room this afternoon, will
you?" he said, when he came down. "I'll leave the door open so
that you can give me a shout if you want anything."

Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard
voices in his sitting-room. A friend had come in to see
Griffiths.

"I say, you'd better not come in tonight," he heard Griffiths
saying.

And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the
room and expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there.
Philip heard him explain.

"I'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms.
The wretched blighter's down with influenza. No whist tonight,
old man."

Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.

"I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?" he
asked.

"Not on your account. I must work at my surgery."

"Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't bother
about me."

"That's all right."

Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly
delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep.
He saw Griffiths get out of an arm-chair, go down on his knees,
and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the fire.
He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making
a row."

"Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?"

"About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you tonight. I
brought an arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I
should sleep so soundly that I shouldn't hear you if you wanted
anything."

"I wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned Philip. "Suppose
you catch it?"

"Then you shall nurse me, old man," said Griffiths, with a
laugh.

In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and
tired after his night's watch, but was full of spirits.

"Now, I'm going to wash you," he said to Philip cheerfully.

"I can wash myself," said Philip, ashamed.

"Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you,
and I can do it just as well as a nurse."

Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to
wash his hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it
with charming tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of
friendly chatter; then he changed the sheet just as they did at
the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the
bed-clothes.

"I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit
up. Deacon's coming in to see you early."

"I can't imagine why you should be so good to me," said Philip.

"It's good practice for me. It's rather a lark having a
patient."

Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and
have something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back
with a bunch of grapes and a few flowers.

"You are awfully kind," said Philip.

He was in bed for five days.

Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths
was the same age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous,
motherly attitude. He was a thoughtful fellow, gentle and
encouraging; but his greatest quality was a vitality which
seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in contact.
Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from
mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine
tenderness of this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then
Griffiths, sitting idly in Philip's room, amused him with gay
stories of amorous adventure. He was a flirtatious creature,
capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a time; and his
account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out of
difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing
a romantic glamour over everything that happened to him. He was
crippled with debts, everything he had of any value was pawned,
but he managed always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous.
He was the adventurer by nature. He loved people of doubtful
occupations and shifty purposes; and his acquaintance among the
riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was enormous. Loose
women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles,
difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers,
respecting his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him
five-pound notes. He was ploughed in his examinations time after
time; but he bore this cheerfully, and submitted with such a
charming grace to the parental expostulations that his father,
a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be seriously
angry with him.

"I'm an awful fool at books," he said cheerfully, "but I can't
work."

Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got
through the exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified,
he would be a tremendous success in practice. He would cure
people by the sheer charm of his manner.

Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who
were tall and straight and high of spirits. By the time he was
well they were fast friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction
to Philip that Griffiths seemed to enjoy sitting in his little
parlour, wasting Philip's time with his amusing chatter and
smoking innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him sometimes to the
tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but Lawson
recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a
picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly
hair. Often they discussed things he knew nothing about, and
then he sat quietly, with a good-natured smile on his handsome
face, feeling quite rightly that his presence was sufficient
contribution to the entertainment of the company. When he
discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for
tips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what
fortunes he could have made if he had bought certain stock at
certain times. It made Philip's mouth water, for in one way and
another he was spending more than he had expected, and it would
have suited him very well to make a little money by the easy
method Macalister suggested.

"Next time I hear of a really good thing I'll let you know,"
said the stockbroker. "They do come along sometimes. It's only
a matter of biding one's time."

Philip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to
make fifty pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so
badly needed for the winter. He looked at the shops in Regent
Street and picked out the articles he could buy for the money.
She deserved everything. She made his life very happy


CHAPTER LXIX

ONE afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from the hospital
to wash and tidy himself before going to tea as usual with
Norah, as he let himself in with his latch-key, his landlady
opened the door for him.

"There's a lady waiting to see you," she said.

"Me?" exclaimed Philip.

He was surprised. It would only be Norah, and he had no idea
what had brought her.

"I shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she's been three times, and
she seemed that upset at not finding you, so I told her she
could wait."

He pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into the room.
His heart turned sick. It was Mildred. She was sitting down, but
got up hurriedly as he came in. She did not move towards him nor
speak. He was so surprised that he did not know what he was
saying.

"What the hell d'you want?" he asked.

She did not answer, but began to cry. She did not put her hands
to her eyes, but kept them hanging by the side of her body. She
looked like a housemaid applying for a situation. There was a
dreadful humility in her bearing. Philip did not know what
feelings came over him. He had a sudden impulse to turn round
and escape from the room.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he said at last.

"I wish I was dead," she moaned.

Philip left her standing where she was. He could only think at
the moment of steadying himself. His knees were shaking. He
looked at her, and he groaned in despair.

"What's the matter?" he said.

"He's left me--Emil."

Philip's heart bounded. He knew then that he loved her as
passionately as ever. He had never ceased to love her. She was
standing before him humble and unresisting. He wished to take
her in his arms and cover her tear-stained face with kisses. Oh,
how long the separation had been! He did not know how he could
have endured it.

"You'd better sit down. Let me give you a drink."

He drew the chair near the fire and she sat in it. He mixed her
whiskey and soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. She looked
at him with great, mournful eyes. There were large black lines
under them. She was thinner and whiter than when last he had
seen her.

"I wish I'd married you when you asked me," she said.

Philip did not know why the remark seemed to swell his heart. He
could not keep the distance from her which he had forced upon
himself. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm awfully sorry you're in trouble."

She leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical
crying. Her hat was in the way and she took it off. He had never
dreamt that she was capable of crying like that. He kissed her
again and again. It seemed to ease her a little.

"You were always good to me, Philip," she said. "That's why I
knew I could come to you."

"Tell me what's happened."

"Oh, I can't, I can't," she cried out, breaking away from him.

He sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against
hers.

"Don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me? I can
never blame you for anything."

She told him the story little by little, and sometimes she
sobbed so much that he could hardly understand.

"Last Monday week he went up to Birmingham, and he promised to
be back on Thursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on
the Friday, so I wrote to ask what was the matter, and he never
answered the letter. And I wrote and said that if I didn't hear
from him by return I'd go up to Birmingham, and this morning I
got a solicitor's letter to say I had no claim on him, and if I
molested him he'd seek the protection of the law."

"But it's absurd," cried Philip. "A man can't treat his wife
like that. Had you had a row?"

"Oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the Sunday, and he said he was
sick of me, but he'd said it before, and he'd come back all
right. I didn't think he meant it. He was frightened, because I
told him a baby was coming. I kept it from him as long as I
could. Then I had to tell him. He said it was my fault, and I
ought to have known better. If you'd only heard the things he
said to me! But I found out precious quick that he wasn't a
gentleman. He left me without a penny. He hadn't paid the rent,
and I hadn't got the money to pay it, and the woman who kept the
house said such things to me--well, I might have been a thief
the way she talked."

"I thought you were going to take a flat."

"That's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in
Highbury. He was that mean. He said I was extravagant, he didn't
give me anything to be extravagant with."

She had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the
important. Philip was puzzled. The whole thing was
incomprehensible.

"No man could be such a blackguard."

"You don't know him. I wouldn't go back to him now not if he was
to come and ask me on his bended knees. I was a fool ever to
think of him. And he wasn't earning the money he said he was.
The lies he told me!"

Philip thought for a minute or two. He was so deeply moved by
her distress that he could not think of himself.

"Would you like me to go to Birmingham? I could see him and try
to make things up."

"Oh, there's no chance of that. He'll never come back now, I
know him."

"But he must provide for you. He can't get out of that. I don't
know anything about these things, you'd better go and see a
solicitor."

"How can I? I haven't got the money."

"I'll pay all that. I'll write a note to my own solicitor, the
sportsman who was my father's executor. Would you like me to
come with you now? I expect he'll still be at his office."

"No, give me a letter to him. I'll go alone."

She was a little calmer now. He sat down and wrote a note. Then
he remembered that she had no money. He had fortunately changed
a cheque the day before and was able to give her five pounds.

"You are good to me, Philip," she said.

"I'm so happy to be able to do something for you."

"Are you fond of me still?"

"Just as fond as ever."

She put up her lips and he kissed her. There was a surrender in
the action which he had never seen in her before. It was worth
all the agony he had suffered.

She went away and he found that she had been there for two
hours. He was extraordinarily happy.

"Poor thing, poor thing," he murmured to himself, his heart
glowing with a greater love than he had ever felt before.

He never thought of Norah at all till about eight o'clock a
telegram came. He knew before opening it that it was from her.


_Is anything the matter? Norah_.


He did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch
her after the play, in which she was walking on, was over and
stroll home with her as he sometimes did; but his whole soul
revolted against the idea of seeing her that evening. He thought
of writing to her, but he could not bring himself to address her
as usual, _dearest Norah_. He made up his mind to telegraph.


_Sorry. Could not get away, Philip_.


He visualised her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little
face, with its high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was
a coarseness in her skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew
that his telegram must be followed by some action on his part,
but at all events it postponed it.

Next day he wired again.


_Regret, unable to come. Will write_.


Mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he
would not tell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she
came first. He waited for her impatiently. He watched for her at
the window and opened the front-door himself.

"Well? Did you see Nixon?"

"Yes," she answered. "He said it wasn't any good. Nothing's to
be done. I must just grin and bear it."

"But that's impossible," cried Philip.

She sat down wearily.

"Did he give any reasons?" he asked.

She gave him a crumpled letter.

"There's your letter, Philip. I never took it. I couldn't tell
you yesterday, I really couldn't. Emil didn't marry me. He
couldn't. He had a wife already and three children."

Philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. It was almost
more than he could bear.

"That's why I couldn't go back to my aunt. There's no one I can
go to but you."

"What made you go away with him?" Philip asked, in a low voice
which he struggled to make firm.

"I don't know. I didn't know he was a married man at first, and
when he told me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn't
see him for months, and when he came to the shop again and asked
me I don't know what came over me. I felt as if I couldn't help
it. I had to go with him."

"Were you in love with him?"

"I don't know. I couldn't hardly help laughing at the things he
said. And there was something about him--he said I'd never
regret it, he promised to give me seven pounds a week--he said
he was earning fifteen, and it was all a lie, he wasn't. And
then I was sick of going to the shop every morning, and I wasn't
getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to treat me as a
servant instead of a relation, said I ought to do my own room,
and if I didn't do it nobody was going to do it for me. Oh, I
wish I hadn't. But when he came to the shop and asked me I felt
I couldn't help it."

Philip moved away from her. He sat down at the table and buried
his face in his hands. He felt dreadfully humiliated.

"You're not angry with me, Philip?" she asked piteously.

"No," he answered, looking up but away from her, "only I'm
awfully hurt."

"Why?"

"You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything
I could to make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of
loving anyone. It's so horrible to know that you were willing to
sacrifice everything for that bounder. I wonder what you saw in
him."

"I'm awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards,
I promise you that."

He thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his
shifty blue eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he
always wore bright red knitted waistcoats. Philip sighed. She
got up and went to him. She put her arm round his neck.

"I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip."

He took her hand and looked up at her. She bent down and kissed
him.

"Philip, if you want me still I'll do anything you like now. I
know you're a gentleman in every sense of the word."

His heart stood still. Her words made him feel slightly sick.

"It's awfully good of you, but I couldn't."

"Don't you care for me any more?"

"Yes, I love you with all my heart."

"Then why shouldn't we have a good time while we've got the
chance? You see, it can't matter now"

He released himself from her.

"You don't understand. I've been sick with love for you ever
since I saw you, but now--that man. I've unfortunately got a
vivid imagination. The thought of it simply disgusts me."

"You are funny," she said.

He took her hand again and smiled at her.

"You mustn't think I'm not grateful. I can never thank you
enough, but you see, it's just stronger than I am."

"You are a good friend, Philip."

They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar
companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that
they should dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted
some persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her
situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accord with
her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment. At
last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and when she
could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She
had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him
to take her to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had
so often been; he was infinitely grateful to her, because her
suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it. She
grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded. The Burgundy from
the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot
that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. Philip
thought it safe to speak to her of the future.

"I suppose you haven't got a brass farthing, have you?" he
asked, when an opportunity presented itself.

"Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady
three pounds of that."

"Well, I'd better give you a tenner to go on with. I'll go and
see my solicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him
pay up something, I'm sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out
of him it'll carry you on till after the baby comes."

"I wouldn't take a penny from him. I'd rather starve."

"But it's monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like
this."

"I've got my pride to consider."

It was a little awkward for Philip. He needed rigid economy to
make his own money last till he was qualified, and he must have
something over to keep him during the year he intended to spend
as house physician and house surgeon either at his own or at
some other hospital. But Mildred had told him various stories of
Emil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate with her in
case she accused him too of want of generosity.

"I wouldn't take a penny piece from him. I'd sooner beg my
bread. I'd have seen about getting some work to do long before
now, only it wouldn't be good for me in the state I'm in. You
have to think of your health, don't you?"

"You needn't bother about the present," said Philip. "I can let
you have all you want till you're fit to work again."

"I knew I could depend on you. I told Emil he needn't think I
hadn't got somebody to go to. I told him you was a gentleman in
every sense of the word."

By degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It
appeared that the fellow's wife had discovered the adventure he
was engaged in during his periodical visits to London, and had
gone to the head of the firm that employed him. She threatened
to divorce him, and they announced that they would dismiss him
if she did. He was passionately devoted to his children and
could not bear the thought of being separated from them. When he
had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his
wife. He had been always anxious that there should be no child
to make the entanglement more complicated; and when Mildred,
unable longer to conceal its approach, informed him of the fact,
he was seized with panic. He picked a quarrel and left her
without more ado.

"When d'you expect to be confined?" asked Philip.

"At the beginning of March."

"Three months."

It was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would
not remain in the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more
convenient too that she should be nearer to him. He promised to
look for something next day. She suggested the Vauxhall Bridge
Road as a likely neighbourhood.

"And it would be near for afterwards," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or
a little more, and then I should have to go into a house. I know
a very respectable place, where they have a most superior class
of people, and they take you for four guineas a week and no
extras. Of Course the doctor's extra, but that's all. A friend
of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a thorough
lady. I mean to tell her that my husband's an officer in India
and I've come to London for my baby, because it's better for my
health."

It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this
way. With her delicate little features and her pale face she
looked cold and maidenly. When he thought of the passions that
burnt within her, so unexpected, his heart was strangely
troubled. His pulse beat quickly.


CHAPTER LXX

PHILIP expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to
his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the
following morning. The silence irritated and at the same time
alarmed him. They had seen one another every day he had been in
London since the previous June; and it must seem odd to her that
he should let two days go by without visiting her or offering a
reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance
she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think that
she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her
that afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because
he had allowed himself to get on such intimate terms with her.
The thought of continuing them filled him with disgust.

He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in
the Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she
liked the rattle of traffic under her windows.

"I don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul
pass all day," she said. "Give me a bit of life."

Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with
apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that
he was treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she
had a quick temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way
would be to tell her frankly that Mildred had come back to him
and his love for her was as violent as it had ever been; he was
very sorry, but he had nothing to offer Norah any more. Then he
thought of her anguish, for he knew she loved him; it had
flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now it
was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain
upon her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as
he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour
flashed across his mind. He knocked at the door. He felt that he
was pale, and wondered how to conceal his nervousness.

She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet
as he entered.

"I recognised your step," she cried. "Where have you been hiding
yourself, you naughty boy?"

She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck.
She was delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give
himself countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the
fire to make the kettle boil.

"I've been awfully busy," he said lamely.

She began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new
commission she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had
not hitherto employed her. She was to get fifteen guineas for
it.

"It's money from the clouds. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll
stand ourselves a little jaunt. Let's go and spend a day at
Oxford, shall we? I'd love to see the colleges."

He looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach
in her eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was
overjoyed to see him. His heart sank. He could not tell her the
brutal truth. She made some toast for him, and cut it into
little pieces, and gave it him as though he were a child.

"Is the brute fed?" she asked.

He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as
she loved to do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very
light. She leaned back in his arms with a sigh of delicious
happiness.

"Say something nice to me," she murmured.

"What shall I say?"

"You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked
me."

"You know I do that."

He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace
at all events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her.
That would be easier. He could not bear to think of her crying.
She made him kiss her, and as he kissed her he thought of
Mildred and Mildred's pale, thin lips. The recollection of
Mildred remained with him all the time, like an incorporated
form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight
continually distracted his attention.

"You're very quiet today," Norah said.

Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:

"You never let me get a word in, and I've got out of the habit
of talking."

"But you're not listening, and that's bad manners."

He reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of
his secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her
irked him this afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him.

"My foot's gone to sleep," he said.

"I'm so sorry," she cried, jumping up. "I shall have to bant if
I can't break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen's
knees."

He went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and
walking about. Then he stood in front of the fire so that she
should not resume her position. While she talked he thought that
she was worth ten of Mildred; she amused him much more and was
jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and she had a much nicer
nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman; and Mildred,
he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he had
any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much
happier than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved
him, and Mildred was only grateful for his help. But when all
was said the important thing was to love rather than to be
loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his whole soul. He would
sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole afternoon with
Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all Norah
could give him.

"I can't help myself," he thought. "I've just got her in my
bones."

He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid
and grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the
one than happiness with the other.

When he got up to go Norah said casually:

"Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan't I?"

"Yes," he answered.

He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to
help Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say
so. He made up his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw
the rooms in the morning, was satisfied with them, and after
luncheon Philip went up with her to Highbury. She had a trunk
for her clothes and another for the various odds and ends,
cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had
tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or
three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no
more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. As they
drove through Victoria Street Philip sat well back in the cab in
case Norah should happen to be passing. He had not had an
opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post
office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what
he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could
have no excuse for not going into the neighbouring square where
she lived. He made up his mind that he had better go in and see
her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated him: he was
angry with Norah, because she forced him to vulgar and degrading
shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It amused him to
help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming sense
of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had
found and was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It
was a pleasure to do things for her, and she had no desire to do
what somebody else seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked
her clothes and put them away. She was not proposing to go out
again, so he got her slippers and took off her boots. It
delighted him to perform menial offices.

"You do spoil me," she said, running her fingers affectionately
through his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her
boots.

He took her hands and kissed them.

"It is nipping to have you here."

He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had
several jars of green earthenware.

"I'll get you some flowers for them," he said.

He looked round at his work proudly.

"As I'm not going out any more I think I'll get into a
tea-gown," she said. "Undo me behind, will you?"

She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His
sex meant nothing to her. But his heart was filled with
gratitude for the intimacy her request showed. He undid the
hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers.

"That first day I came into the shop I never thought I'd be
doing this for you now," he said, with a laugh which he forced.

"Somebody must do it," she answered.

She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown
decorated with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled
her on a sofa and made tea for her.

"I'm afraid I can't stay and have it with you," he said
regretfully. "I've got a beastly appointment. But I shall be
back in half an hour."

He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the
appointment was, but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered
dinner for the two of them when he took the rooms, and proposed
to spend the evening with her quietly. He was in such a hurry to
get back that he took a tram along the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He
thought he had better break the fact to Norah at once that he
could not stay more than a few minutes.

"I say, I've got only just time to say how d'you do," he said,
as soon as he got into her rooms. "I'm frightfully busy."

Her face fell.

"Why, what's the matter?"

It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and
he knew that he reddened when he answered that there was a
demonstration at the hospital which he was bound to go to. He
fancied that she looked as though she did not believe him, and
this irritated him all the more.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said. "I shall have you all
tomorrow."

He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking
forward to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that
he must do that in common decency; he could not leave her by
herself in a strange house.

"I'm awfully sorry, I'm engaged tomorrow."

He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have
given anything to avoid. The colour on Norah's cheeks grew
brighter.

"But I've asked the Gordons to lunch"--they were an actor and
his wife who were touring the provinces and in London for
Sunday--"I told you about it a week ago."

"I'm awfully sorry, I forgot." He hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't
possibly come. Isn't there somebody else you can get?"

"What are you doing tomorrow then?"

"I wish you wouldn't cross-examine me."

"Don't you want to tell me?"

"I don't in the least mind telling you, but it's rather annoying
to be forced to account for all one's movements."

Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got
the better of her temper, and going up to him took his hands.

"Don't disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I've been looking forward
so much to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see
you, and we'll have such a jolly time."

"I'd love to if I could."

"I'm not very exacting, am I? I don't often ask you to do
anything that's a bother. Won't you get out of your horrid
engagement--just this once?"

"I'm awfully sorry, I don't see how I can," he replied sullenly.

"Tell me what it is," she said coaxingly.

He had had time to invent something. "Griffiths' two sisters are
up for the week-end and we're taking them out."

"Is that all?" she said joyfully. "Griffiths can so easily get
another man."

He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It
was a clumsy lie.

"No, I'm awfully sorry, I can't--I've promised and I mean to
keep my promise."

"But you promised me too. Surely I come first."

"I wish you wouldn't persist," he said.

She flared up.

"You won't come because you don't want to. I don't know what
you've been doing the last few days, you've been quite
different."

He looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid I'll have to be going," he said.

"You won't come tomorrow?"

"No."

"In that case you needn't trouble to come again," she cried,
losing her temper for good.

"That's just as you like," he answered.

"Don't let me detain you any longer," she added ironically.

He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that
it had gone no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked
along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so
easily. He went into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to
take in to Mildred.

The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a
small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and
the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a
sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite
wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of
Mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.

"It's really just like home," smiled Philip.

"I might be worse off, mightn't I?" she answered.

When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the
fire, and they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt
happy and generous.

"What would you like to do tomorrow?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the
shop, well, she's married now, and she's asked me to go and
spend the day with her. Of course she thinks I'm married too."

Philip's heart sank.

"But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with
you."

He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case
she would stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not
have hesitated.

"Well, you were a silly to do that. I've promised to go for
three weeks and more."

"But how can you go alone?"

"Oh, I shall say that Emil's away on business. Her husband's in
the glove trade, and he's a very superior fellow."

Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart.
She gave him a sidelong glance.

"You don't grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it's
the last time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don't know
how long, and I had promised."

He took her hand and smiled.

"No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only
want you to be happy."

There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face
downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a
twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget. That was
the name under which Norah wrote.

"I do like his books," said Mildred. "I read them all. They're
so refined."

He remembered what Norah had said of herself.

"I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me
so genteel."


CHAPTER LXXI

PHILIP, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had told him the
details of his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning,
after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their
dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of the
previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got out
of his difficulties so easily.

"It's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a
woman, he remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of a
nuisance to get out of it."

Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his
skill in managing the business. At all events he was immensely
relieved. He thought of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill,
and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was
happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his part that he did
not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own
disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.

But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah.
She wrote:


_Dearest,

I'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in
the afternoon as usual. I love you.
                                                  Your Norah._


His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note
to Griffiths and showed it to him.

"You'd better leave it unanswered," said he.

"Oh, I can't," cried Philip. "I should be miserable if I thought
of her waiting and waiting. You don't know what it is to be sick
for the postman's knock. I do, and I can't expose anybody else
to that torture."

"My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without
somebody suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One
thing is, it doesn't last very long."

Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her
suffer; and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish
she was capable of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had
told him she was going to be married. He did not want anyone to
experience what he had experienced then.

"If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her,"
said Griffiths.

"I can't do that."

He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was
angry with Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She
must have seen that he had no more love to give her. They said
women were so quick at seeing those things.

"You might help me," he said to Griffiths.

"My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. People do get
over these things, you know. She probably isn't so wrapped up in
you as you think, either. One's always rather apt to exaggerate
the passion one's inspired other people with."

He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.

"Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write to her, and
tell her the thing's over. Put it so that there can be no
mistake about it. It'll hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you
do the thing brutally than if you try half-hearted ways."

Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:


_My dear Norah,

I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let
things remain where we left them on Saturday. I don't think
there's any use in letting these things drag on when they've
ceased to be amusing. You told me to go and I went. I do not
propose to come back. Good-bye.
                                                   Philip Carey._


He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought
of it. Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling
eyes. He did not say what he felt.

"I think that'll do the trick," he said.

Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable
morning,. for he imagined with great detail what Norah would
feel when she received his letter. He tortured himself with the
thought of her tears. But at the same time he was relieved.
Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief seen, and he was
free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart leaped at
the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's
work at the hospital was over.

When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had
no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice
behind him.

"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour."

It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair.
She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice
and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them.
He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his
best to smile.

"Yes, do," he said.

He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room.
He was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a
cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly.

"Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If
I'd taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly
wretched."

"It was meant seriously," he answered gravely.

"Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote
and apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to
apologise again. After all, you're your own master and I have no
claims upon you. I don't want you to do anything you don't want
to."

She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went
towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands.

"Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended
you."

He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not
look at her.

"I'm afraid it's too late," he said.

She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his
knees.

"Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can
understand that I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it.
What's the good of making us both unhappy? It's been so jolly,
our friendship." She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. "I
love you, Philip."

He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other
side of the room.

"I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's
over."

"D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and
you took that one?"

He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which
seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had
left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite
silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears
rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob. It
was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away.

"I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't
love you."

She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were
overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have
been easier to bear if she had reproached him. He had thought
her temper would get the better of her, and he was prepared for
that. At the back of his mind was a feeling that a real quarrel,
in which each said to the other cruel things, would in some way
be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last he
grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room
and got a glass of water; he leaned over her.

"Won't you drink a little? it'll relieve you."

She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three
mouthfuls. Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a
handkerchief. She dried her eyes.

"Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you,"
she moaned.

"I'm afraid that's always the case," he said. "There's always
one who loves and one who lets himself be loved."

He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart.
Norah did not answer for a long time.

"I'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful," she
said at last.

She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her
before complain of the life she had led with her husband or of
her poverty. He had always admired the bold front she displayed
to the world.

"And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I
admired you because you were clever and it was so heavenly to
have someone I could put my trust in. I loved you. I never
thought it could come to an end. And without any fault of mine
at all."

Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of
herself, and she hid her face in Philip's handkerchief. She
tried hard to control herself.

"Give me some more water," she said.

She wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared."

"I'm awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I'm very
grateful for all you've done for me."

He wondered what it was she saw in him.

"Oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want men to
behave well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat
them decently they make you suffer for it."

She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip
a long, steady look. Then she sighed.

"It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?"

Philip took a sudden determination.

"I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to think too
badly of me, I want you to see that I can't help myself.
Mildred's come back."

The colour came to her face.

"Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that surely."

"I was afraid to."

She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.

"Will you call me a cab," she said. "I don't feel I can walk."

He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she
followed him into the street he was startled to see how white
she was. There was a heaviness in her movements as though she
had suddenly grown older. She looked so ill that he had not the
heart to let her go alone.

I'll drive back with you if you don't mind."

She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in
silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which
children, with shrill cries, played in the road. When they
arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. It seemed
as though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to
move.

"I hope you'll forgive me, Norah," he said.

She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were
bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.

"Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You mustn't bother.
I don't blame you. I shall get over it all right."

Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she
bore no ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than
suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into
her house.

Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's lodgings. There
was a curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to
reproach himself. But why? He did not know what else he could
have done. Passing a fruiterer's, he remembered that Mildred was
fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he could show his love
for her by recollecting every whim she had.


CHAPTER LXXII

FOR the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred.
He took his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred
lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and
watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She
would feel his eyes upon her.

"Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your
work," she said.

"Tyrant," he answered gaily.

He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth
for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her.
She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour
and a quick tongue. Mildred had become great friends with her
and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the
circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. The
good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too
great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred's sense of propriety
had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her
brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he
had ordered something which tempted Mildred's capricious
appetite. It enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and
every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed
it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he
settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against
her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and
sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He
dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very
quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his
happiness.

"Had a nice little nap?" he smiled, when she woke.

"I've not been sleeping," she answered. "I only just closed my
eyes."

She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a
phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously
inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her health
and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She
went for a `constitutional' every morning that it was fine and
remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she sat
in St. James' Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite
happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting
with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip,
and told Philip with abundant detail the history of the
landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the
people who lived in the next house on either side. Now and then
she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip
about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she
should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of
the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred
did not know her; "I'm one to keep myself to myself," she said,
"I'm not one to go about with anybody.") and she narrated
details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the
most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.

"After all, I'm not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the
doctor says I shan't have any trouble. You see, it isn't as if
I wasn't well made."

Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time
came, had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week.
He was to charge fifteen guineas.

"Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen
strongly recommended him, and I thought it wasn't worth while to
spoil the ship for a coat of tar."

"If you feel happy and comfortable I don't mind a bit about the
expense," said Philip.

She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most
natural thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend
money on her: each five-pound note he gave her caused him a
little thrill of happiness and pride; he gave her a good many,
for she was not economical.

"I don't know where the money goes to," she said herself, "it
seems to slip through my fingers like water."

"It doesn't matter," said Philip. "I'm so glad to be able to do
anything I can for you."

She could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things
for the baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to
buy them. Philip had lately sold one of the mortgages in which
his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds in the
bank waiting to be invested in something that could be more
easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. They
talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that Mildred
should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her
living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had
not also to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one
of the shops of the company for which she had worked before, and
the child could be put with some decent woman in the country.

"I can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and
sixpence a week. It'll be better for the baby and better for
me."

It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with
her she pretended to think he was concerned with the expense.

"You needn't worry about that," she said. "I shan't ask _you_
to pay for it."

"You know I don't care how much I pay."

At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be
still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that
the thought was there. He was shocked at first; and then,
reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all
concerned such an event was to be desired.

"It's all very fine to say this and that," Mildred remarked
querulously, "but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her
living by herself; it doesn't make it any easier when she's got
a baby."

"Fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled Philip,
taking her hand.

"You've been good to me, Philip."

"Oh, what rot!"

"You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for what you've
done."

"Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done anything for
you, I've done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I
don't want you to do anything unless you love me."

He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a
commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an
acknowledgment for services rendered.

"But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to me."

"Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all right again
we'll go for our little honeymoon."

"You are naughty," she said, smiling.

Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as
she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a
fortnight: that would give Philip a chance to work without
interruption for his examination; after that came the Easter
holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris together. Philip
talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was
delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he
knew in the Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of
charming little restaurants; they would go to the play, and he
would take her to music halls. It would amuse her to meet his
friends. He had talked to her about Cronshaw, she would see him;
and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris for a couple of
months; and they would go to the Bai Bullier; there were
excursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres,
Fontainebleau.

"It'll cost a lot of money," she said.

"Oh, damn the expense. Think how I've been looking forward to
it. Don't you know what it means to me? I've never loved anyone
but you. I never shall."

She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he
saw in them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She
was much gentler than she used to be. There was in her no longer
the superciliousness which had irritated him. She was so
accustomed to him now that she took no pains to keep up before
him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair with
the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left
off the vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless
style suited her. Her face was so thin that it made her eyes
seem very large; there were heavy lines under them, and the
pallor of her cheeks made their colour more profound. She had a
wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There seemed to
Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they
could continue in that same way always. He was happier than he
had ever been in his life.

He used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for she liked
to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple
of hours' work to make up for the lost evening. He generally
brushed her hair for her before he went. He had made a ritual of
the kisses he gave her when he bade her good-night; first he
kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers were, the
nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring
them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and
then the left, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with
a heart overflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to
gratify the desire for self-sacrifice which consumed him.

Presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home
where she was to be confined. Philip was then able to visit her
only in the afternoons. Mildred changed her story and
represented herself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to
India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to the
mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law.

"I have to be rather careful what I say," she told him, "as
there's another lady here whose husband's in the Indian Civil."

"I wouldn't let that disturb me if I were you," said Philip.
"I'm convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same
boat."

"What boat?" she asked innocently.

"The Flying Dutchman."

Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was
allowed to see her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was
very weak, but relieved that everything was over. She showed him
the baby, and herself looked at it curiously.

"It's a funny-looking little thing, isn't it? I can't believe
it's mine."

It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at
it. He did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him
because the nurse who owned the house was standing by his side;
and he felt by the way she was looking at him that, disbelieving
Mildred's complicated story, she thought he was the father.

"What are you going to call her?" asked Philip.

"I can't make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or
Cecilia."

The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent
down and kissed Mildred on the mouth.

"I'm so glad it's all over happily, darling."

She put her thin arms round his neck.

"You have been a brick to me, Phil dear."

"Now I feel that you're mine at last. I've waited so long for
you, my dear."

They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up.
The nurse entered. There was a slight smile on her lips.


CHAPTER LXXIII

THREE weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to
Brighton. She had made a quick recovery and looked better than
he had ever seen her. She was going to a boarding-house where
she had spent a couple of weekends with Emil Miller, and had
written to say that her husband was obliged to go to Germany on
business and she was coming down with her baby. She got pleasure
out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain
fertility of invention in the working out of the details.
Mildred proposed to find in Brighton some woman who would be
willing to take charge of the baby. Philip was startled at the
callousness with which she insisted on getting rid of it so
soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor child had
much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philip
had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she
had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to
help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing of the sort
occurred. Mildred was not unkind to her baby; she did all that
was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and she talked about it
a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it. She could
not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembled
its father already. She was continually wondering how she would
manage when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself
for being such a fool as to have it at all.

"If I'd only known then all I do now," she said.

She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare.

"You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said.
"I'd like to see Emil getting into such a stew about it."

Philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of
baby-farming and the ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children
that selfish, cruel parents have put in their charge.

"Don't be so silly," said Mildred. "That's when you give a woman
a sum down to look after a baby. But when you're going to pay so
much a week it's to their interest to look after it well."

Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people
who had no children of their own and would promise to take no
other.

"Don't haggle about the price," he said. "I'd rather pay half a
guinea a week than run any risk of the kid being starved or
beaten."

"You're a funny old thing, Philip," she laughed.

To him there was something very touching in the child's
helplessness. It was small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had
been looked forward to with shame and anguish. Nobody wanted it.
It was dependent on him, a stranger, for food, shelter, and
clothes to cover its nakedness.

As the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the
baby too, but he was afraid she would laugh at him.

"You will write to me, darling, won't you? And I shall look
forward to your coming back with oh! such impatience."

"Mind you get through your exam."

He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten
days before him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to
pass, first to save himself time and expense, for money had been
slipping through his fingers during the last four months with
incredible speed; and then because this examination marked the
end of the drudgery: after that the student had to do with
medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of which was more
vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had been
hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the
rest of the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to
Mildred that he had failed: though the examination was difficult
and the majority of candidates were ploughed at the first
attempt, he knew that she would think less well of him if he did
not succeed; she had a peculiarly humiliating way of showing
what she thought.

Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he
snatched half an hour every day to write a long letter to her.
He had always a certain shyness in expressing himself by word of
mouth, but he found he could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of
things which it would have made him feel ridiculous to say.
Profiting by the discovery he poured out to her his whole heart.
He had never been able to tell her before how his adoration
filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his
thoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future,
the happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he
owed her. He asked himself (he had often asked himself before
but had never put it into words) what it was in her that filled
him with such extravagant delight; he did not know; he knew only
that when she was with him he was happy, and when she was away
from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he knew only
that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his
body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed
against his lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her
presence was almost pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely
weak as though, not having eaten, he were tremulous from want of
food. He looked forward eagerly to her answers. He did not
expect her to write often, for he knew that letter-writing came
difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the clumsy
little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of
the boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather
and the baby, told him she had been for a walk on the front with
a lady-friend whom she had met in the boarding-house and who had
taken such a fancy to baby, she was going to the theatre on
Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up. It touched Philip
because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, the
formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to
take her in his arms and kiss her.

He went into the examination with happy confidence. There was
nothing in either of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew
that he had done well, and though the second part of the
examination was _viva voce_ and he was more nervous, he
managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent a triumphant
telegram to Mildred when the result was announced.

When he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her,
saying that she thought it would be better for her to stay
another week in Brighton. She had found a woman who would be
glad to take the baby for seven shillings a week, but she wanted
to make inquiries about her, and she was herself benefiting so
much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days more would do
her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, but would
he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat,
she couldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same
hat, and her lady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of
bitter disappointment. It took away all his pleasure at getting
through his examination.

"If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn't
bear to stay away a day longer than necessary."

He put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure
selfishness; of course her health was more important than
anything else. But he had nothing to do now; he might spend the
week with her in Brighton, and they could be together all day.
His heart leaped at the thought. It would be amusing to appear
before Mildred suddenly with the information that he had taken
a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he
paused. He was not certain that she would be pleased to see him;
she had made friends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked
boisterous joviality; he realised that she amused herself more
with other people than with him. It would torture him if he felt
for an instant that he was in the way. He was afraid to risk it.
He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing to keep
him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see
her every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him
to come she would have asked him to. He dared not risk the
anguish he would suffer if he proposed to come and she made
excuses to prevent him.

He wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the
end of his letter said that if she were very nice and cared to
see him for the week-end he would be glad to run down; but she
was by no means to alter any plans she had made. He awaited her
answer with impatience. In it she said that if she had only
known before she could have arranged it, but she had promised to
go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, it would make
the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Why
did he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could
lunch at the Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see
the very superior lady-like person who was going to take the
baby.

Sunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train
approached Brighton the sun poured through the carriage window.
Mildred was waiting for him on the platform.

"How jolly of you to come and meet me!" he cried, as he seized
her hands.

"You expected me, didn't you?"

"I hoped you would. I say, how well you're looking."

"It's done me a rare lot of good, but I think I'm wise to stay
here as long as I can. And there are a very nice class of people
at the boarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody
all these months. It was dull sometimes."

She looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with
a great many inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck
floated a long boa of imitation swansdown. She was still very
thin, and she stooped a little when she walked (she had always
done that,) but her eyes did not seem so large; and though she
never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy look it had.
They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had not
walked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp
and walked stiffly in the attempt to conceal it.

"Are you glad to see me?" he asked, love dancing madly in his
heart.

"Of course I am. You needn't ask that."

"By the way, Griffiths sends you his love."

"What cheek!"

He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her
how flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the
narration of some adventure which Griffiths under the seal of
secrecy had imparted to him. Mildred had listened, with some
pretence of disgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and
Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his friend's good looks
and charm.

"I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's so jolly
and amusing, and he's such an awfully good sort."

Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths
had nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths'
self-sacrifice lost nothing.

"You can't help liking him," said Philip.

"I don't like good-looking men," said Mildred. "They're too
conceited for me."

"He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you an awful
lot."

"What have you said?" asked Mildred.

Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for
Mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story of
his connection with her. He described her to him fifty times. He
dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and Griffiths
knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her
face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the charm
of her pale, thin lips.

"By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that," he
said. "Life wouldn't be worth living."

Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so
madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air one
breathed and whatever else was essential to existence. Griffiths
knew that Philip had looked after the girl while she was having
her baby and was now going away with her.

"Well, I must say you've deserved to get something," he
remarked. "It must have cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you
can afford it."

"I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!"

Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one
of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched
the people pass. There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in
twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the
Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches. They
could tell the people who had come down from London for the day;
the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were many
Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little
corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were
middle-aged gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large
hotels, carefully dressed; and they walked industriously after
too substantial a breakfast to give themselves an appetite for
too substantial a luncheon: they exchanged the time of day with
friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or London-by-the-Sea. Here
and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately unconscious of
the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather
boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a
silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had
come from a day's shooting, he strolled in knickerbockers, and
ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat on the back of his head.
The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea was trim and
neat.

After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to
take charge of the baby. She lived in a small house in a back
street, but it was clean and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding.
She was an elderly, stout person, with gray hair and a red,
fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and Philip thought
she seemed kind.

"Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he
asked her.

She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older
than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since
vicars wanted young men to assist them; he earned a little now
and then by doing locums when someone took a holiday or fell
ill, and a charitable institution gave them a small pension; but
her life was lonely, it would be something to do to look after
a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help her
to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed.

"Quite the lady, isn't she?" said Mildred, when they went away.

They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the
crowd and the band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched
her face as she looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the
women who came in. She had a peculiar sharpness for reckoning up
what things cost, and now and then she leaned over to him and
whispered the result of her meditations.

"D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven
guineas."

Or: "Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit, that is--that's
not ermine." She laughed triumphantly. "I'd know it a mile off."

Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and the
ingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The
band played sentimental music.

After dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took
her arm. He told her what arrangements he had made for their
journey to France. She was to come up to London at the end of
the week, but she told him that she could not go away till the
Saturday of the week after that. He had already engaged a room
in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to taking
the tickets.

"You won't mind going second-class, will you? We mustn't be
extravagant, and it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves
pretty well when we get there."

He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would
wander through its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly
in the charming gardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was
fine perhaps, when they had had enough of Paris, they might go
to Fontainebleau. The trees would be just bursting into leaf.
The green of the forest in spring was more beautiful than
anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the happy
pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and
tried to look deep into her eyes.

"You do want to come, don't you?" he said.

"Of course I do," she smiled.

"You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I don't know how
I shall get through the next days. I'm so afraid something will
happen to prevent it. It maddens me sometimes that I can't tell
you how much I love you. And at last, at last..."

He broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on
the way, and Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed
her quickly and ran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She
stood where he left her. He was strangely grotesque when he ran.


CHAPTER LXXIV

THE following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip
kept her to himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank
champagne at dinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so
long that she enjoyed everything ingenuously. She cuddled up to
Philip when they drove from the theatre to the room he had taken
for her in Pimlico.

"I really believe you're quite glad to see me," he said.

She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations
of affection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted.

"I've asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow," he told her.

"Oh, I'm glad you've done that. I wanted to meet him."

There was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday
night, and Philip was afraid she would be bored if she were
alone with him all day. Griffiths was amusing; he would help
them to get through the evening; and Philip was so fond of them
both that he wanted them to know and to like one another. He
left Mildred with the words:

"Only six days more."

They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano's on Sunday,
because the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a
good deal more than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and
had to wait some time for Griffiths.

"He's an unpunctual devil," said Philip. "He's probably making
love to one of his numerous flames."

But presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and
thin; his head was placed well on the body, it gave him a
conquering air which was attractive; and his curly hair, his
bold, friendly blue eyes, his red mouth, were charming. Philip
saw Mildred look at him with appreciation, and he felt a curious
satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile.

"I've heard a great deal about you," he said to Mildred, as he
took her hand.

"Not so much as I've heard about you," she answered.

"Nor so bad," said. Philip.

"Has he been blackening my character?"

Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white
and regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.

"You ought to feel like old friends," said Philip. "I've talked
so much about you to one another."

Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length
passed his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just
been appointed house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of
London. He was taking up his duties at the beginning of May and
meanwhile was going home for a holiday; this was his last week
in town, and he was determined to get as much enjoyment into it
as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which Philip
admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in
what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from
him a force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was
almost as sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively
than Philip had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that
his little party was a success. She was amusing herself
enormously. She laughed louder and louder. She quite forgot the
genteel reserve which had become second nature to her.

Presently Griffiths said:

"I say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs.
Miller. Philip never calls you anything but Mildred."

"I daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you call her that
too," laughed Philip.

"Then she must call me Harry."

Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good
it was to see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a
little, kindly, because he was always so serious.

"I believe he's quite fond of you, Philip," smiled Mildred.

"He isn't a bad old thing," answered Griffiths, and taking
Philip's hand he shook it gaily.

It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They
were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their
heads. Griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that
Philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet. He had a gift for
story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their romance
and their laughter in his narration. He played in all of them a
gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with
excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote.
When the lights began to be turned out she was astonished.

"My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn't more
than half past nine."

They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:

"I'm coming to have tea at Philip's room tomorrow. You might
look in if you can."

"All right," he smiled.

On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but
Griffiths. She was taken with his good looks, his well-cut
clothes, his voice, his gaiety.

"I am glad you like him," said Philip. "D'you remember you were
rather sniffy about meeting him?"

"I think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is
a nice friend for you to have."

She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a
thing she did rarely.

"I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much."

"Don't be so absurd," he laughed, touched by her appreciation so
that he felt the moisture come to his eyes.

She opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to
Philip.

"Tell Harry I'm madly in love with him," she said.

"All right," he laughed. "Good-night."

Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank
lazily into an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual
in the slow movements of his large limbs. Philip remained
silent, while the others chattered away, but he was enjoying
himself. He admired them both so much that it seemed natural
enough for them to admire one another. He did not care if
Griffiths absorbed Mildred's attention, he would have her to
himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of
a loving husband, confident in his wife's affection, who looks
on with amusement while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger.
But at half past seven he looked at his watch and said:

"It's about time we went out to dinner, Mildred."

There was a moment's pause, and Griffiths seemed to be
considering.

"Well, I'll be getting along," he said at last. "I didn't know
it was so late."

"Are you doing anything tonight?" asked Mildred.

"No."

There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.

"I'll just go and have a wash," he said, and to Mildred he
added: "Would you like to wash your hands?"

She did not answer him.

"Why don't you come and dine with us?" she said to Griffiths.

He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.

"I dined with you last night," he laughed. "I should be in the
way."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," insisted Mildred. "Make him come,
Philip. He won't be in the way, will he?"

"Let him come by all means if he'd like to."

"All right, then," said Griffiths promptly. "I'll just go
upstairs and tidy myself."

The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.

"Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?"

"I couldn't help myself. It would have looked so funny to say
nothing when he said he wasn't doing anything."

"Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing
anything?"

Mildred's pale lips tightened a little.

"I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being
alone with you."

They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip
went into his bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood
in an Italian restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he
quickly realised that he was showing to disadvantage in
comparison with Griffiths, and he forced himself to hide his
annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the pain that
was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred,
as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to
make herself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate.
Presently Philip began to think he had been a fool to surrender
to a feeling of jealousy. After dinner when they got into a
hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred, sitting between the two
men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His anger vanished.
Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that Griffiths was
holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently, it
was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken,
what he might have asked himself before, whether Mildred and
Griffiths were in love with one another. He could not see
anything of the performance on account of the mist of suspicion,
anger, dismay, and wretchedness which seemed to be before his
eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact that anything
was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a strange
desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he
wanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had
never been alone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them
by themselves.

"I'll come too," said Griffiths. "I've got rather a thirst on."

"Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred."

Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them
together now to make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He
did not go to the bar, but up into the balcony, from where he
could watch them and not be seen. They had ceased to look at the
stage and were smiling into one another's eyes. Griffiths was
talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to hang
on his lips. Philip's head began to ache frightfully. He stood
there motionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went
back. They were enjoying themselves without him, and he was
suffering, suffering. Time passed, and now he had an
extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He knew they had not
thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he had
paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a
fool they were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could
see how happy they were without him. His instinct was to leave
them to themselves and go home, but he had not his hat and coat,
and it would necessitate endless explanations. He went back. He
felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred's eyes when she saw him,
and his heart sank.

"You've been a devil of a time," said Griffiths, with a smile of
welcome.

"I met some men I knew. I've been talking to them, and I
couldn't get away. I thought you'd be all right together."

"I've been enjoying myself thoroughly," said Griffiths. "I don't
know about Mildred."

She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar
sound in the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that
they should go.

"Come on," said Griffiths, "we'll both drive you home."

Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that
she might not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take
her hand nor did she offer it, and he knew all the time that she
was holding Griffiths'. His chief thought was that it was all so
horribly vulgar. As they drove along he asked himself what plans
they had made to meet without his knowledge, he cursed himself
for having left them alone, he had actually gone out of his way
to enable them to arrange things.

"Let's keep the cab," said Philip, when they reached the house
in which Mildred was lodging. "I'm too tired to walk home."

On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to
the fact that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he
must notice that something was the matter. Philip's silence at
last grew too significant to struggle against, and Griffiths,
suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip wanted to say
something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself to,
and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost.
It was best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to
speak.

"Are you in love with Mildred?" he asked suddenly.

"I?" Griffiths laughed. "Is that what you've been so funny about
this evening? Of course not, my dear old man."

He tried to slip his hand through Philip's arm, but Philip drew
himself away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring
himself to force Griffiths to tell him that he had not been
holding the girl's hand. He suddenly felt very weak and broken.

"It doesn't matter to you, Harry," he said. "You've got so many
women--don't take her away from me. It means my whole life. I've
been so awfully wretched."

His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn
from him. He was horribly ashamed of himself.

"My dear old boy, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you.
I'm far too fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool.
If I'd known you were going to take it like that I'd have been
more careful."

"Is that true?" asked Philip.

"I don't care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of
honour."

Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.


CHAPTER LXXV

NEXT day Philip was in a good temper. He was very anxious not to
bore Mildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged
that he should not see her till dinner-time. She was ready when
he fetched her, and he chaffed her for her unwonted punctuality.
She was wearing a new dress he had given her. He remarked on its
smartness.

"It'll have to go back and be altered," she said. "The skirt
hangs all wrong."

"You'll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take
it to Paris with you."

"It'll be ready in time for that."

"Only three more whole days. We'll go over by the eleven
o'clock, shall we?"

"If you like."

He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His
eyes rested on her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh
a little at his own passion.

"I wonder what it is I see in you," he smiled.

"That's a nice thing to say," she answered.

Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her
chest was as flat as a boy's. Her mouth, with its narrow pale
lips, was ugly, and her skin was faintly green.

"I shall give you Blaud's Pills in quantities when we're away,"
said Philip, laughing. "I'm going to bring you back fat and
rosy."

"I don't want to get fat," she said.

She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were
dining Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and
his power over her, said:

"It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry
last night?"

"I told you I was in love with him," she laughed.

"I'm glad to know that he's not in love with you."

"How d'you know?"

"I asked him."

She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam
came into her eyes.

"Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?"

She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths'
bold, legible writing. There were eight pages. It was well
written, frank and charming; it was the letter of a man who was
used to making love to women. He told Mildred that he loved her
passionately, he had fallen in love with her the first moment he
saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond
Philip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was
such a dear, and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was
not his fault, he was just carried away. He paid her delightful
compliments. Finally he thanked her for consenting to lunch with
him next day and said he was dreadfully impatient to see her.
Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night before;
Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had
taken the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he
was in bed.

He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave
no outward sign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with
a smile, calmly.

"Did you enjoy your lunch?"

"Rather," she said emphatically.

He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the
table.

"You mustn't take Griffiths too seriously. He's just a
butterfly, you know."

She took the letter and looked at it again.

"I can't help it either," she said, in a voice which she tried
to make nonchalant. "I don't know what's come over me."

"It's a little awkward for me, isn't it?" said Philip.

She gave him a quick look.

"You're taking it pretty calmly, I must say."

"What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to tear out my hair
in handfuls?"

"I knew you'd be angry with me."

"The funny thing is, I'm not at all. I ought to have known this
would happen. I was a fool to bring you together. I know
perfectly well that he's got every advantage over me; he's much
jollier, and he's very handsome, he's more amusing, he can talk
to you about the things that interest you."

"I don't know what you mean by that. If I'm not clever I can't
help it, but I'm not the fool you think I am, not by a long way,
I can tell you. You're a bit too superior for me, my young
friend."

"D'you want to quarrel with me?" he asked mildly.

"No, but I don't see why you should treat me as if I was I don't
know what."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to talk
things over quietly. We don't want to make a mess of them if we
can help it. I saw you were attracted by him and it seemed to me
very natural. The only thing that really hurts me is that he
should have encouraged you. He knew how awfully keen I was on
you. I think it's rather shabby of him to have written that
letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn't care
twopence about you."

"If you think you're going to make me like him any the less by
saying nasty things about him, you're mistaken."

Philip was silent for a moment. He did not know what words he
could use to make her see his point of view. He wanted to speak
coolly and deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion
that he could not clear his thoughts.

"It's not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation
that you know can't last. After all, he doesn't care for anyone
more than ten days, and you're rather cold; that sort of thing
doesn't mean very much to you."

"That's what you think."

She made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous
tone.

"If you're in love with him you can't help it. I'll just bear it
as best I can. We get on very well together, you and I, and I've
not behaved badly to you, have I? I've always known that you're
not in love with me, but you like me all right, and when we get
over to Paris you'll forget about Griffiths. If you make up your
mind to put him out of your thoughts you won't find it so hard
as all that, and I've deserved that you should do something for
me."

She did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. When
the silence grew oppressive Philip began to talk of indifferent
things. He pretended not to notice that Mildred was inattentive.
Her answers were perfunctory, and she volunteered no remarks of
her own. At last she interrupted abruptly what he was saying:

"Philip, I'm afraid I shan't be able to go away on Saturday. The
doctor says I oughtn't to."

He knew this was not true, but he answered:

"When will you be able to come away?"

She glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and
looked nervously away. She was at that moment a little afraid of
him.

"I may as well tell you and have done with it, I can't come away
with you at all."

"I thought you were driving at that. It's too late to change
your mind now. I've got the tickets and everything."

"You said you didn't wish me to go unless I wanted it too, and
I don't."

"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to have any more tricks
played with me. You must come."

"I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I can't bear to
think of anything else. I don't like you that way. I couldn't,
Philip."

"You were quite willing to a week ago."

"It was different then."

"You hadn't met Griffiths?"

"You said yourself I couldn't help it if I'm in love with him."

Her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed
on her plate. Philip was white with rage. He would have liked to
hit her in the face with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw
how she would look with a black eye. There were two lads of
eighteen dining at a table near them, and now and then they
looked at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him dining with a
pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his shoes.
It was Mildred who broke the silence.

"What's the good of our going away together? I'd be thinking of
him all the time. It wouldn't be much fun for you."

"That's my business," he answered.

She thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened.

"But that's just beastly."

"What of it?"

"I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word."

"You were mistaken."

His reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it.

"For God's sake don't laugh," she cried. "I can't come away with
you, Philip. I'm awfully sorry. I know I haven't behaved well to
you, but one can't force themselves."

"Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I did
everything for you? I planked out the money to keep you till
your baby was born, I paid for your doctor and everything, I
paid for you to go to Brighton, and I'm paying for the keep of
your baby, I'm paying for your clothes, I'm paying for every
stitch you've got on now."

"If you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what you've done for
me in my face."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. What d'you suppose I care if
I'm a gentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn't waste
my time with a vulgar slut like you. I don't care a damn if you
like me or not. I'm sick of being made a blasted fool of. You're
jolly well coming to Paris with me on Saturday or you can take
the consequences."

Her cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice
had the hard commonness which she concealed generally by a
genteel enunciation.

"I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced
yourself on me, I always hated it when you kissed me. I wouldn't
let you touch me now not if I was starving."

Philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles
of his throat refused to act. He gulped down something to drink
and lit a cigarette. He was trembling in every part. He did not
speak. He waited for her to move, but she sat in silence,
staring at the white tablecloth. If they had been alone he would
have flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately; he
fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he pressed
upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without
speaking, and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare
at them curiously. He called for the bill.

"Shall we go?" he said then, in an even tone.

She did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves.
She put on her coat.

"When are you seeing Griffiths again?"

"Tomorrow," she answered indifferently.

"You'd better talk it over with him."

She opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it.
She took it out.

"Here's the bill for this dress," she said hesitatingly.

"What of it?"

"I promised I'd give her the money tomorrow."

"Did you?"

"Does that mean you won't pay for it after having told me I
could get it?"

"It does."

"I'll ask Harry," she said, flushing quickly.

"He'll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the
moment, and he pawned his microscope last week, because he was
so broke."

"You needn't think you can frighten me by that. I'm quite
capable of earning my own living."

"It's the best thing you can do. I don't propose to give you a
farthing more."

She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby's keep, but
did not say anything. They left the restaurant, and in the
street Philip asked her:

"Shall I call a cab for you? I'm going to take a little stroll."

"I haven't got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon."

"It won't hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I
shall be in about tea-time."

He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a
moment and saw that she was standing helplessly where he had
left her, looking at the traffic. He went back and with a laugh
pressed a coin into her hand.

"Here's two bob for you to get home with."

Before she could speak he hurried away.