LIX…

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 among 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.

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 by 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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.”

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 blush 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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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 Bal 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.

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.

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.

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.

LXXVI

Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the club of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was the vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one or two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the tedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so, that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel. He had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into Philip’s room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip heard him go out early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him. Suddenly there was a light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet and opened it. Mildred stood on the threshold. She did not move.

“Come in,” said Philip.

He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin.

“Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night,” she said.

“Oh, that’s all right.”

She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid, ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to reconcile himself with his master.

“I’ve been lunching with Harry,” she said.

“Have you?”

“If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I’ll come.”

A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion.

“Because of the money?” he asked.

“Partly,” she answered simply. “Harry can’t do anything. He owes five weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor’s pressing him for money. He’d pawn anything he could, but he’s pawned everything already. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on Saturday there’s the book at my lodgings, and I can’t get work in five minutes. It always means waiting some little time till there’s a vacancy.”

She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the natural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew what she told him well enough.

“You said partly,” he observed at last.

“Well, Harry says you’ve been a brick to both of us. You’ve been a real good friend to him, he says, and you’ve done for me what p’raps no other man would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And he said what you said about him, that he’s fickle by nature, he’s not like you, and I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won’t last and you will, he says so himself.”

“D’you WANT to come away with me?” asked Philip.

“I don’t mind.”

He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She looked at him quickly, but did not speak.

“I’ve looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy…”

He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden, without warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting in the chair in which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back of it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the sagging in the middle, where the head had rested.

“I’m not lucky with women,” thought Philip.

Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry with such an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart was torn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself to his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly.

“Are you awfully unhappy?” he said at last.

“I wish I was dead,” she moaned. “I wish I’d died when the baby come.”

Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her head more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table and looked at her.

“It is awful, love, isn’t it?” he said. “Fancy anyone wanting to be in love.”

Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. She had the grotesque look of one of those painters’ dummies used to hang draperies on.

“I didn’t know you loved him so much as all that,” said Philip.

He understood Griffiths’ love well enough, for he put himself in Griffiths’ place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was able to think himself in Griffiths’ body, and he kissed her with his lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that surprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this was passion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in his heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he felt strangely weak.

“I don’t want to make you unhappy. You needn’t come away with me if you don’t want to. I’ll give you the money all the same.”

She shook her head.

“No, I said I’d come, and I’ll come.”

“What’s the good, if you’re sick with love for him?”

“Yes, that’s the word. I’m sick with love. I know it won’t last, just as well as he does, but just now…”

She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A strange idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think it out.

“Why don’t you go away with him?”

“How can I? You know we haven’t got the money.”

“I’ll give you the money.”

“You?”

She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour came into her cheeks.

“Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you’d come back to me.”

Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at him with open eyes.

“Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn’t think of it.”

“Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him.”

Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart to refuse vehemently.

“I’ll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday. You could easily do that. On Monday he’s going home till he takes up his appointment at the North London.”

“Oh, Philip, do you mean that?” she cried, clasping her hands. “If you could only let us go—I would love you so much afterwards, I’d do anything for you. I’m sure I shall get over it if you’ll only do that. Would you really give us the money?”

“Yes,” he said.

She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip’s side, taking his hands.

“You are a brick, Philip. You’re the best fellow I’ve ever known. Won’t you be angry with me afterwards?”

He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!

“May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don’t mind? He won’t consent unless you promise it doesn’t matter. Oh, you don’t know how I love him! And afterwards I’ll do anything you like. I’ll come over to Paris with you or anywhere on Monday.”

She got up and put on her hat.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to ask him if he’ll take me.”

“Already?”

“D’you want me to stay? I’ll stay if you like.”

She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.

“No, it doesn’t matter, you’d better go at once. There’s only one thing: I can’t bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. Say I have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to keep out of my way.”

“All right.” She sprang up and put on her gloves. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

“You’d better dine with me tonight.”

“Very well.”

She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to hers she threw her arms round his neck.

“You are a darling, Philip.”

She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache and could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He knew that she was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but the sudden passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had come from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he felt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and confessed that in Mildred’s place he would have done as Mildred did. What hurt him most was Griffiths’ treachery; they had been such good friends, and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might have spared him.

He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he pleased Mildred. They suited one another.

Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them. At last she got up.

“I think I must be going off now,” she said.

“I daresay you’ve got a lot to do,” he answered.

She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.

“You haven’t forgotten what you promised?” she said at last, as he held open the door.

“What is that?”

“About the money.”

“How much d’you want?”

He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her suffer.

“There’s the dress and the book tomorrow. That’s all. Harry won’t come, so we shan’t want money for that.”

Philip’s heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door handle go. The door swung to.

“Why not?”

“He says we couldn’t, not on your money.”

A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths through her.

“I don’t see why not, if I’m willing,” he said.

“That’s what I told him.”

“I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn’t hesitate.”

“Oh, it’s not that, he wants to all right. He’d go at once if he had the money.”

“If he’s squeamish about it I’ll give YOU the money.”

“I said you’d lend it if he liked, and we’d pay it back as soon as we could.”

“It’s rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you away for a week-end.”

“It is rather, isn’t it?” she said, with a shameless little laugh. It sent a cold shudder down Philip’s spine.

“What are you going to do then?” he asked.

“Nothing. He’s going home tomorrow. He must.”

That would be Philip’s salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget this infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their dishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the torture a horrible delight.

“It looks as if it were now or never.”

“That’s what I told him,” she said.

There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was biting his nails in his nervousness.

“Where were you thinking of going?”

“Oh, to Oxford. He was at the ’Varsity there, you know. He said he’d show me the colleges.”

Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of sights.

“And it looks as if you’d have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly there just now.”

“I’ve done all I could to persuade him.”

“Why don’t you have another try?”

“Shall I say you want us to go?”

“I don’t think you must go as far as that,” said Philip.

She paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced himself to look at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he despised her, he loved her with all his heart.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll go and see if he can’t arrange it. And then, if he says yes, I’ll come and fetch the money tomorrow. When shall you be in?”

“I’ll come back here after luncheon and wait.”

“All right.”

“I’ll give you the money for your dress and your room now.”

He went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress was six guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby’s keep for a week. He gave her eight pounds ten.

“Thanks very much,” she said.

She left him.