"OF HUMAN BONDAGE\n\n\nBY\n\nW. SOMERSET MAUGHAM\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nThe day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a\nrawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room\nin which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced\nmechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and\nwent to the child's bed.\n\n\"Wake up, Philip,\" she said.\n\nShe pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him\ndownstairs. He was only half awake.\n\n\"Your mother wants you,\" she said.\n\nShe opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over\nto a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out\nher arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had\nbeen awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt\nthe warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer\nto herself.\n\n\"Are you sleepy, darling?\" she said.\n\nHer voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great\ndistance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very\nhappy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to\nmake himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he\nkissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.\nThe doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.\n\n\"Oh, don't take him away yet,\" she moaned.\n\nThe doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would\nnot be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again;\nand she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held\nthe right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly\npassed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said the doctor. \"You're tired.\"\n\nShe shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.\nThe doctor bent down.\n\n\"Let me take him.\"\n\nShe was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor\nhanded him back to his nurse.\n\n\"You'd better put him back in his own bed.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir.\" The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His\nmother sobbed now broken-heartedly.\n\n\"What will happen to him, poor child?\"\n\nThe monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the\ncrying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room,\nupon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted\nthe towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the\nwoman guessed what he was doing.\n\n\"Was it a girl or a boy?\" she whispered to the nurse.\n\n\"Another boy.\"\n\nThe woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She\napproached the bed.\n\n\"Master Philip never woke up,\" she said. There was a pause. Then the\ndoctor felt his patient's pulse once more.\n\n\"I don't think there's anything I can do just now,\" he said. \"I'll call\nagain after breakfast.\"\n\n\"I'll show you out, sir,\" said the child's nurse.\n\nThey walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.\n\n\"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"D'you know at what time he'll be here?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram.\"\n\n\"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way.\"\n\n\"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir.\"\n\n\"Who's she?\"\n\n\"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?\"\n\nThe doctor shook his head.\n\n\n\nII\n\nIt was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room\nat Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to\namusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each\nof the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each\narm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout\nchairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he\ncould hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the\ncurtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of\nbuffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,\nhe held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand\npulled away a chair and the cushions fell down.\n\n\"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you.\"\n\n\"Hulloa, Emma!\" he said.\n\nThe nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions,\nand put them back in their places.\n\n\"Am I to come home?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, I've come to fetch you.\"\n\n\"You've got a new dress on.\"\n\nIt was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of\nblack velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had\nthree large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She\nhesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could\nnot give the answer she had prepared.\n\n\"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?\" she said at length.\n\n\"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?\"\n\nNow she was ready.\n\n\"Your mamma is quite well and happy.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am glad.\"\n\n\"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more.\" Philip did not\nknow what she meant.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Your mamma's in heaven.\"\n\nShe began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried\ntoo. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features.\nShe came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in\nLondon, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her\nemotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the\npity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite\nunselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.\nBut in a little while she pulled herself together.\n\n\"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you,\" she said. \"Go and say\ngood-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home.\"\n\n\"I don't want to say good-bye,\" he answered, instinctively anxious to hide\nhis tears.\n\n\"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat.\"\n\nHe fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall.\nHe heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He\npaused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends,\nand it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would\nbe sorry for him.\n\n\"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin.\"\n\n\"I think you'd better,\" said Emma.\n\n\"Go in and tell them I'm coming,\" he said.\n\nHe wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door\nand walked in. He heard her speak.\n\n\"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss.\"\n\nThere was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in.\nHenrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In\nthose days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much\ngossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an\nelder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies,\nwhom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously.\n\n\"My poor child,\" said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.\n\nShe began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to\nluncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.\n\n\"I've got to go home,\" said Philip, at last.\n\nHe disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again.\nThen he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange\nladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission.\nThough crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would\nhave been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they\nexpected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out\nof the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the\nbasement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta\nWatkin's voice.\n\n\"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's\ndead.\"\n\n\"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta,\" said her sister. \"I\nknew it would upset you.\"\n\nThen one of the strangers spoke.\n\n\"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world.\nI see he limps.\"\n\n\"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother.\"\n\nThen Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where\nto go.\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nWhen they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary,\nrespectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street,\nKensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing\nletters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which\nhad arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the\nhall-table.\n\n\"Here's Master Philip,\" said Emma.\n\nMr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on\nsecond thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of\nsomewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,\nworn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was\nclean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine\nthat in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a\ngold cross.\n\n\"You're going to live with me now, Philip,\" said Mr. Carey. \"Shall you\nlike that?\"\n\nTwo years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after\nan attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an\nattic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother.\"\n\nThe child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.\n\n\"Your dear mother left you in my charge.\"\n\nMr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that\nhis sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way\nthought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if\nher death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over\nfifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was\nchildless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a\nsmall boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his\nsister-in-law.\n\n\"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow,\" he said.\n\n\"With Emma?\"\n\nThe child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.\n\n\"I'm afraid Emma must go away,\" said Mr. Carey.\n\n\"But I want Emma to come with me.\"\n\nPhilip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey\nlooked at them helplessly.\n\n\"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir.\"\n\nThough Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took\nthe boy on his knee and put his arm round him.\n\n\"You mustn't cry,\" he said. \"You're too old to have a nurse now. We must\nsee about sending you to school.\"\n\n\"I want Emma to come with me,\" the child repeated.\n\n\"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and\nI don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend.\"\n\nMr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's\nfather was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments\nsuggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden\ndeath from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more\nthan his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house\nin Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in\ndelicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and\naccepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her\nfurniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a\nfurnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience\ntill her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of\nmoney, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered\ncircumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way\nand another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than\ntwo thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn\nhis own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was\nsobbing still.\n\n\"You'd better go to Emma,\" Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console\nthe child better than anyone.\n\nWithout a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped\nhim.\n\n\"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon,\nand you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all\nyour toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by\nyou can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be\nsold.\"\n\nThe boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he\nturned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was\na bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially\nseemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered\nfrom the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead\nwoman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon\nherself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have\ndismissed her.\n\nBut Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though\nhis heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own\nson--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft\nwords. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that\nshe would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was\ngoing to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike\non the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and\nthere was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his\ntears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.\nPresently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped\nher to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to\ngather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.\n\nBut at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in\nwhich Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered\nthen that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his\nfather and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.\n\n\"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy.\"\n\n\"Uncle William's there.\"\n\n\"Never mind that. They're your own things now.\"\n\nPhilip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left\nthe room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short\na time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.\nIt was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.\nBut he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the\nlandlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his\nmother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately\nupstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and\nlistened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that\nit would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat\nuncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the\nhandle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from\nhearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold\nfor a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened\nnow, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were\ndrawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.\nOn the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a\nlittle tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the\nchimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when\nhis mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something\ncurious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were\ngoing to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a\nnight-dress.\n\nPhilip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took\nas many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They\nsmelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,\nfilled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender\nbags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The\nstrangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had\njust gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come\nupstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on\nhis lips.\n\nIt was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply\nbecause it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on\nthe pillow. He lay there quite still.\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nPhilip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused\nhim, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was\nsixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set\nout to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than\nfive minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the\ngate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and\nit was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it.\nThey walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by\nvisitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went\nup to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a\nside-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for\nbeggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a\nred roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical\nstyle. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room\nwindows were gothic.\n\nMrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the\ndrawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she\nwent to the door.\n\n\"There's Aunt Louisa,\" said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. \"Run and give her\na kiss.\"\n\nPhilip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then\nstopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her\nhusband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale\nblue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion\nof her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold\nchain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice.\n\n\"Did you walk, William?\" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her\nhusband.\n\n\"I didn't think of it,\" he answered, with a glance at his nephew.\n\n\"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?\" she asked the child.\n\n\"No. I always walk.\"\n\nHe was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to\ncome in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow\ntiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An\nimposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a\npeculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church\nwas reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with\nemblems of the Four Evangelists.\n\n\"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your\njourney,\" said Mrs. Carey.\n\nIt was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if\nthe weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if\nMrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid,\ndidn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they\nmust keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the\ndining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not\nget out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on\nSunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the\nstudy so that he could write his sermon.\n\nAunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that\nlooked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large\ntree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it\nwas possible to climb quite high up it.\n\n\"A small room for a small boy,\" said Mrs. Carey. \"You won't be frightened\nat sleeping alone?\"\n\n\"Oh, no.\"\n\nOn his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs.\nCarey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some\nuncertainty.\n\n\"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?\"\n\n\"I can wash myself,\" he answered firmly.\n\n\"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea,\" said Mrs. Carey.\n\nShe knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should\ncome down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat\nhim; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found\nherself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be\nnoisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys.\nMrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back\nand knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could\npour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for\ntea.\n\nThe dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of\nit, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle;\nand at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it.\nIn one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs\ncovered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and\nwas called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife.\nMrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that\nwas not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair\nhad had arms she might not be so ready to leave it.\n\nMr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out\nto his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and\npolished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was\nmuch smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the\nCurate.\n\n\"What are we waiting for?\" said Mr. Carey.\n\n\"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your\njourney.\"\n\nMrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She\nseldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year,\nand, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two,\nhe went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually\nmanaged to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for\nthe exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in\nthe egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for\na moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do.\n\n\"I'll put some books under him,\" said Mary Ann.\n\nShe took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book\nfrom which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on\nPhilip's chair.\n\n\"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible,\" said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked\ntone. \"Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?\"\n\nMr. Carey considered the question for an instant.\n\n\"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top,\nMary Ann,\" he said. \"The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men\nlike ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship.\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of that, William,\" said Aunt Louisa.\n\nPhilip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut\nthe top off his egg.\n\n\"There,\" he said, handing it to Philip, \"you can eat my top if you like.\"\n\nPhilip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so\ntook what he could.\n\n\"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?\" asked the Vicar.\n\n\"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day.\"\n\n\"How did you like that top, Philip?\" asked his uncle.\n\n\"Very much, thank you.\"\n\n\"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon.\"\n\nMr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be\nfortified for the evening service.\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nPhilip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by\nfragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a\ngood deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father\nhad been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant\ncareer at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began\nto earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson\nset about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,\nhe was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,\nthrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with\nmingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to\ngive so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by\na generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a\npatient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,\nbut of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.\nThe parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with\nreserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great\nbeauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a\nhardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers\namong which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he\ndeplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he\ntold his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept\nhospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the\ndining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at\nluncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the\nvicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar\nfelt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume\nthe city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was\npractically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends\nnow? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it\nwas a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to\nitself: she had no more idea of money than a child.\n\nWhen Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which\nseemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the\nbreakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the\nlate Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the\nparson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed\nthe head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than\nusual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was\nthin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.\nThere was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.\nThe first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this\nwas quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,\nand he could not imagine who had ordered them.\n\n\"D'you know anything about these, Philip?\" he asked.\n\n\"I remember mamma said she'd been taken,\" he answered. \"Miss Watkin\nscolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember\nme by when he grows up.\"\n\nMr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear\ntreble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.\n\n\"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room,\" said\nMr. Carey. \"I'll put the others away.\"\n\nHe sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to\nbe taken.\n\nOne day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better\nthan usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had\ntaken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:\nsuddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear\nseized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was\nexpecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be\nexpected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow\nup and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,\nbecause he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had\nno photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years\nbefore. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He\ncould not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called\nher maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,\nand perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to\nstruggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had\nbeen on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the\nsoles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the\nground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when\nshe raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never\ndo it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep\nrich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,\nbut chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of\na white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself\nin the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had\nnever had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her\nbeautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not\nafford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;\nand she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas\nbefore--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped\ndownstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove\nto a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to\nask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,\nseeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she\ninsisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove\nback again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with\nall her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.\n\nShe found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran\ndown the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her\nroom empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and\nthe cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting\nanxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and\nreproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,\nand when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She\nfell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained\nunconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched\nher, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,\nwhen she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of\nher. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither\nof the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they\nwere talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in\nhis memory.\n\n\"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up.\"\n\n\"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen,\" said Mr. Carey. \"Two would\nhave done.\"\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nOne day was very like another at the vicarage.\n\nSoon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it\nwith two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took\nit over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then\nit was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it\nlate, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was\nmaking jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the\nVicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to\ndo the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing\nvillage. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank,\nthe doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round\nthe little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor\npeople; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.\nCarey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to\nthe other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this\nfixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had\nnever resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street:\nhe could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent\ntheir erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for\ndissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the\ntown, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers;\nMrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the\ndifference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to\nchurch, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with\nboth of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of\ngoing for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher\nwho was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come\nto church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was\nvery wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity\nfurther and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat\nwas, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often\nstopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager,\nwho was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man\nwith a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip\nhe seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats\nfor the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish\nchurch, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led\nwas the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit\nfrom the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the\nHarvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no\nhesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory\nconsultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be\nsaved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really\nseemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish.\nMr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care\nhe would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey\nadvised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his\nfault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in\nthe practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged\nhimself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.\n\nOnce there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey\nstill thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate\nhad announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and\nJosiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission\nHall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few\nwords. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the\nchair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views\nupon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a\nchurchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He\nreminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was\nthe person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to\nrecognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics,\nand in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had\nenjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To\nthis Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his\npurpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were\nnot asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political\nmeeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and\nfor his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable\nplace. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was\nlittle better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in\na Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and\nthat very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His\nsister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of\nthe Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby\nlinen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in\nhis own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts\nof things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first\nmoment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in\nlife. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they\nmet after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put\nthe matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her\nbrother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these\ngentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of\nanxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but\nthey ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held\nat the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey\nand Josiah Graves both made speeches.\n\nWhen Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally\nwent upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies\ntalked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr.\nWilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least\nfive hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in\nthe stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with\nthe restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never\nopened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had\na stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with\nbanking.\n\nThen Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they\ncontinued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a\nside street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt\n(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and\nnets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in\non each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood\nfor a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who\nknows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for\nflat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They\nlooked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram\nthe doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home.\n\nDinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it\nconsisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and\nSaturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the\nafternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by\nhis uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of\nFrench she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany\nthe old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used\nto tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs\nby heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was\nasked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage.\nThere were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their\nparties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr.\nWigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of\nMendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the\nSwallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony.\n\nBut the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset\nthem, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They\npreferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon.\nMrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like\nlosing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary\nAnn resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to\nclear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a\nlittle stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat.\nImmediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then\nPhilip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and\nafter a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress\nhimself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs.\nCarey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She\nthen took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey\ncontinued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got\nup, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed.\n\nWhen Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening\nhe should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water,\nsince the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two\npersons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in\nBlackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary\nAnn had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to\nbegin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,\nbecause he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired\nafter a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for\nthe same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for\nPhilip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night:\nwhat with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't\nknow what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday\nnight; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey\nwas shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But\nthe Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's\nDay. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after\neighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they\nmight show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to\nbath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said\nshe was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he\nshould go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the\nLord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly\nwashed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nSunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say\nthat he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week.\n\nThe household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a\npoor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at\nthe door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she\ngot down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her\nhusband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers\nwere longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After\nbreakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip\nwas privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a\nmarble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was\nthin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was\nregulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and\non a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were\nmost when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not\nso fine that people wanted to hurry away.\n\nThen Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood\nin the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten\nthe fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took\nseveral minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a\nvoluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his\nface as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the\narena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife\ncould not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black\nsatin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time,\nbut on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then,\nin conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink\nrose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he\nsaid he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed\nas a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage\nwhen the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew\nthat he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house,\nand no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary\nAnn, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She\nhurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of\nsherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed\nin the carriage, and they set off.\n\nThe fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw.\nThey drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch\ncold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and\nwhile the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled\nthemselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the\nsixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip\nthreepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the\nservice began.\n\nPhilip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a\ngentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained\ninterest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the\nplate.\n\nWhen everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few\nwords with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went\nto the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their\nsurplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and\ntold him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it\nseemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved\nhim from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies,\nsixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one\nput in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes\nthere was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was\nalways a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But\nMiss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that\nthe stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the\ndrive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his\nmind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates\nSociety. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey\nremarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and\nsomebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the\nvicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner.\n\nWhen this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay\ndown on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks.\n\nThey had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for\nevensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she\nread the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the\nevening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the\ndarkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church\nwith all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very\nfriendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew\nused to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more\neasily for the feeling of protection.\n\nThey had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for\nhim on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one\nthe shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully\ntired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann\nundressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to\nlove her.\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nPhilip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his\nloneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother\nlived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of\nthirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at\neighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it;\nbut she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her\nmaster and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off\nHarbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories\nof the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the\nharbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One\nevening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was\nafraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil\ncommunications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who\nwere rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable\nin the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took\nhis toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like\ndisorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be\nuntidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he\nfidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he\nwent to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her\nheart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his\naffection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her\ndemonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes\nshe heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she\nwent in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann\nexplained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she\nheard, and she smiled with constraint.\n\n\"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William,\" she said, when she\nreturned to her sewing.\n\n\"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into\nshape.\"\n\nOn the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.\nMr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the\ndrawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah\nGraves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which\nthe Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in\nTercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said\nthey were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had\nbeen at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the\nEstablished Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for\nthe Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate\nthan had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his\nsecret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the\nline at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a\nCatholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they\nwere Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best,\nthe fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think\nthat his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he\nhad possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often\nrelated that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays\nupon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was\nsitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to\npreach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having\ndecided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an\nelection the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue\nletters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to\nprosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his\nmind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the\ncandlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or\ntwice irritably.\n\nSuddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his\nface, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the\ndining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around\nhim. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation\nhad just brought the structure down in noisy ruin.\n\n\"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed\nto play games on Sunday.\"\n\nPhilip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit\nwas, flushed deeply.\n\n\"I always used to play at home,\" he answered.\n\n\"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as\nthat.\"\n\nPhilip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be\nsupposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not\nanswer.\n\n\"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you\nsuppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight,\nand how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws\nin the afternoon?\"\n\nMr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him\nwhile Philip did so.\n\n\"You're a very naughty boy,\" he repeated. \"Think of the grief you're\ncausing your poor mother in heaven.\"\n\nPhilip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to\nletting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent\nthe sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to\nturn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage\nwas set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one\nsaw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green\nfields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip\nfelt infinitely unhappy.\n\nPresently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the\nstairs.\n\n\"Have you had a nice little nap, William?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" he answered. \"Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a\nwink.\"\n\nThis was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own\nthoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made\na noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept\nbefore or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar\nnarrated the facts.\n\n\"He hasn't even said he was sorry,\" he finished.\n\n\"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry,\" said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the\nchild should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.\n\nPhilip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not\nknow what power it was in him that prevented him from making any\nexpression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined\nto cry, but no word would issue from his lips.\n\n\"You needn't make it worse by sulking,\" said Mr. Carey.\n\nTea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously\nnow and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his\nuncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got\nhis hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:\n\n\"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in\na proper frame of mind to enter the House of God.\"\n\nPhilip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was\nplaced upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his\nuncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual\nwent to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip.\n\n\"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and\nthen your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening.\"\n\nShe took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.\n\n\"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the\nhymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?\"\n\nPhilip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would\nnot read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with\nhim.\n\n\"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?\" she asked\nhelplessly.\n\nPhilip broke his silence at last.\n\n\"I want to be left alone,\" he said.\n\n\"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your\nuncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?\"\n\n\"I hate you. I wish you was dead.\"\n\nMrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a\nstart. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as\nshe thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her\neager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even\nthough it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could\nscarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached\nso--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her\ncheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief,\nand now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was\ncrying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her\nsilently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her\nwithout being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin,\nshrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little\nboy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart\nwould break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt\nthat the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new\nlove because he had made her suffer.\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nOn the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go\ninto the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were\nconducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip\nasked:\n\n\"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?\"\n\n\"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?\"\n\n\"I can't sit still till tea-time.\"\n\nMr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could\nnot suggest that Philip should go into the garden.\n\n\"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day.\"\n\nHe took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and\nturned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.\n\n\"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in\nto tea you shall have the top of my egg.\"\n\nMrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had\nbought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him.\n\n\"The devil finds work for idle hands to do,\" said Mr. Carey.\n\nHe put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful\nblaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened\nhis collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the\nsofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought\nhim a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his\nfeet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes,\nand since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The\nVicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep.\nHe snored softly.\n\nIt was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the\nwords: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the\nworks of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal\nlife. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began\nsaying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him,\nand the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more\nthan two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering:\nthere were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long\ntwig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in\nthe field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside\nhis brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by\ntea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not\ntry to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.\n\nMrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so\nwide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his\ncollect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle.\nHis uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in\nthe right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about\nto go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a\nlittle jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door.\nShe walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and\nthen cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had\nput him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was\nsobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders.\nMrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the\nchild was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now\nshe realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his\nfeelings: he hid himself to weep.\n\nWithout thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she\nburst into the drawing-room.\n\n\"William, William,\" she said. \"The boy's crying as though his heart would\nbreak.\"\n\nMr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.\n\n\"What's he got to cry about?\"\n\n\"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you\nthink it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do.\"\n\nMr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.\n\n\"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more\nthan ten lines.\"\n\n\"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?\nThere are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in\nthat.\"\n\n\"Very well, I don't mind.\"\n\nMrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only\npassion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two\nin the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty\nvolumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading,\nbut he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were\nillustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them\nhe could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon\nwith white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some\nbattered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel\nengravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine.\nShe coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to\ncompose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him\nin the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went\nin Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands\nso that she might not see he had been crying.\n\n\"Do you know the collect yet?\" she said.\n\nHe did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his\nvoice. She was oddly embarrassed.\n\n\"I can't learn it by heart,\" he said at last, with a gasp.\n\n\"Oh, well, never mind,\" she said. \"You needn't. I've got some picture\nbooks for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them\ntogether.\"\n\nPhilip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so\nthat she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.\n\n\"Look,\" she said, \"that's the place where our blessed Lord was born.\"\n\nShe showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.\nIn the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting\ntwo Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if\nhe wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads.\n\n\"Read what it says,\" he asked.\n\nMrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic\nnarrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but\nfragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that\nfollowed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted\nher.\n\n\"I want to see another picture.\"\n\nWhen Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.\nPhilip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations.\nIt was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for\ntea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart;\nhe had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the\nbook again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with\nher husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this\neagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of\nJesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed\nitself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more\nbooks. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he\nkept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip\ntook it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to\nread the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it\nwas about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.\n\nThen, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps\nbecause the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he\nfound his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart\nbeat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but\nthere was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his\nimagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a\nByzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic\nvastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored\nat the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the\ndarkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat\nwent on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last\nto some strange mansion.\n\nOne day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of\nThe Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the\nillustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that\ndealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again\nand again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him.\nHe had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.\nInsensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of\nreading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge\nfrom all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating\nfor himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day\na source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other\nthings. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he\noccupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble\nthemselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know\nthem, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one\ntime and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and\nhomilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories\nof the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last\ndiscovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The\nLancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then\nmany more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding\nalong the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.\n\nThe summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a\nhammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And\nhere for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the\nvicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July;\nAugust came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the\ncollection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the\nVicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for\nthey disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London\nwith aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman\nwho had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go\nand play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was\nafraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was\ngoing to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved\nfrom contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nThe Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at\nTercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united\nby long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon,\nand a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to\naspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an\nhonest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was\nattached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr.\nCarey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of\nSeptember. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew\nlittle of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's\nOwn Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.\n\nWhen they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with\napprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The\nhigh brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There\nwas a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy,\nuntidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They\nwere shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly\nfurniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a\nforbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.\n\n\"What's Mr. Watson like?\" asked Philip, after a while.\n\n\"You'll see for yourself.\"\n\nThere was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not\ncome. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.\n\n\"Tell him I've got a club-foot,\" he said.\n\nBefore Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into\nthe room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet\nhigh, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked\nloudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror\nin Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's\nsmall hand in his.\n\n\"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?\" he shouted.\n\nPhilip reddened and found no word to answer.\n\n\"How old are you?\"\n\n\"Nine,\" said Philip.\n\n\"You must say sir,\" said his uncle.\n\n\"I expect you've got a good lot to learn,\" the headmaster bellowed\ncheerily.\n\nTo give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers.\nPhilip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.\n\n\"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that,\nwon't you?\" he added to Philip. \"Only eight of you in there. You won't\nfeel so strange.\"\n\nThen the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with\nblack hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and\na small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular\ncoldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still.\nHer husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly\npush towards her.\n\n\"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey.\"\n\nWithout a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not\nspeaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and\nwhat books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little\nembarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two\ngot up.\n\n\"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Mr. Watson. \"He'll be safe with me. He'll get on\nlike a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?\"\n\nWithout waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great\nbellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.\n\n\"Come along, young fellow,\" shouted Mr. Watson. \"I'll show you the\nschool-room.\"\n\nHe swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly\nlimped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables\nthat ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.\n\n\"Nobody much here yet,\" said Mr. Watson. \"I'll just show you the\nplayground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself.\"\n\nMr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with\nhigh brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron\nrailing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the\nbuildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately,\nkicking up the gravel as he walked.\n\n\"Hulloa, Venning,\" shouted Mr. Watson. \"When did you turn up?\"\n\nThe small boy came forward and shook hands.\n\n\"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully\nhim.\"\n\nThe headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear\nby the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.\n\n\"What's your name?\"\n\n\"Carey.\"\n\n\"What's your father?\"\n\n\"He's dead.\"\n\n\"Oh! Does your mother wash?\"\n\n\"My mother's dead, too.\"\n\nPhilip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but\nVenning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.\n\n\"Well, did she wash?\" he went on.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Philip indignantly.\n\n\"She was a washerwoman then?\"\n\n\"No, she wasn't.\"\n\n\"Then she didn't wash.\"\n\nThe little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then\nhe caught sight of Philip's feet.\n\n\"What's the matter with your foot?\"\n\nPhilip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the\none which was whole.\n\n\"I've got a club-foot,\" he answered.\n\n\"How did you get it?\"\n\n\"I've always had it.\"\n\n\"Let's have a look.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Don't then.\"\n\nThe little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin,\nwhich Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was\nso great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the\nsurprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence\nof mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and\nhe had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit\nanyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third\nboy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed\nthat the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his\nfeet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.\n\nBut others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to\ntalk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what\nwonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these\npresently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was\nanxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to\nsay. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite\nwillingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.\n\n\"No,\" answered Philip. \"I've got a club-foot.\"\n\nThe boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had\nasked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at\nPhilip awkwardly.\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nNext morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his\ncubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he\nwas.\n\n\"Are you awake, Singer?\"\n\nThe partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was\na green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of\nventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was\naired in the morning.\n\nPhilip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning,\nand he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his\nprayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than\nif he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was\nbeginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the\ndiscomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for\nthe fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his\nwashing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and\na chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily\nwhile they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and\nthey ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of\nthe two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his\nwife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an\nimpressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice\nas though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip\nlistened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and\nthe servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two\nlarge pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and\nbutter.\n\nPhilip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the\nbread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and\nfollowed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which\nthey had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or\nbacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey\nwhether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think\nboys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered\nnothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some\nparents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.\n\nPhilip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up\nhis mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.\n\nAfter breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the\nday-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of\nthe officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as\nthe old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into\nschool. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two\nunder-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one,\nleading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To\nattach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known\nofficially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower\nsecond. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a\npleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the\ntime passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven\nand they were let out for ten minutes' rest.\n\nThe whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were\ntold to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along\nopposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran\nfrom wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was\nseized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he\nbecame a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still\nfree. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp\ngave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made\nstraight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant\nidea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to\nlaugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping\ngrotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They\nlost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with\nhelpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as\nhe always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got\nup. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if\nanother had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of\nPhilip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck\nthe rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the\nground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He\ncould not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that\nhe could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been\nin his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him,\nmimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he\ndid not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using\nall his strength to prevent himself from crying.\n\nSuddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee\nwas bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice\ncould not control his form. They were excited still by the strange\nnovelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his\nfeet. He tucked them under the bench.\n\nIn the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped\nPhilip on the way out after dinner.\n\n\"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?\" he asked him.\n\nPhilip blushed self-consciously.\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that,\ncan't you?\"\n\nPhilip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nThe boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he\nhad not changed, asked why he was not going to play.\n\n\"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nThere were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of\nshame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the\nreply.\n\n\"He's got a club-foot, sir.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see.\"\n\nMr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and\nhe was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but\nhe was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.\n\n\"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you.\"\n\nSome of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in\ngroups of two or three.\n\n\"You'd better come along with me, Carey,\" said the master \"You don't know\nthe way, do you?\"\n\nPhilip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.\n\n\"I can't go very fast, sir.\"\n\n\"Then I'll go very slow,\" said the master, with a smile.\n\nPhilip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said\na gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.\n\nBut at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was\ncalled Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.\n\n\"I say, let's look at your foot,\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" answered Philip.\n\nHe jumped into bed quickly.\n\n\"Don't say no to me,\" said Singer. \"Come on, Mason.\"\n\nThe boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words\nhe slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off\nhim, but he held them tightly.\n\n\"Why can't you leave me alone?\" he cried.\n\nSinger seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched\non the blanket. Philip cried out.\n\n\"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?\"\n\n\"I won't.\"\n\nIn desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him,\nbut he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn\nit.\n\n\"Oh, don't, don't,\" said Philip. \"You'll break my arm.\"\n\n\"Stop still then and put out your foot.\"\n\nPhilip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The\npain was unendurable.\n\n\"All right. I'll do it,\" said Philip.\n\nHe put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He\nlooked curiously at the deformity.\n\n\"Isn't it beastly?\" said Mason.\n\nAnother came in and looked too.\n\n\"Ugh,\" he said, in disgust.\n\n\"My word, it is rum,\" said Singer, making a face. \"Is it hard?\"\n\nHe touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it\nwere something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard Mr.\nWatson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes back on Philip\nand dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr. Watson came into the\ndormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore\nthe green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. The\nlittle boys were safely in bed. He put out the light and went out.\n\nSinger called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his teeth\nin the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was not crying\nfor the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered\nwhen they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to\nstand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord.\n\nAnd then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish mind\nthat this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular reason he\nremembered that cold morning when Emma had taken him out of bed and put\nhim beside his mother. He had not thought of it once since it happened,\nbut now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother's body against his and\nher arms around him. Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream,\nhis mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched\ndays at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at\nhome. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy, it must be\nnothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and Emma would come up\npresently and go to bed. He fell asleep.\n\nBut when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and the\nfirst thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle.\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nAs time went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was accepted\nlike one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable corpulence. But\nmeanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help\nit, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he adopted a\npeculiar walk. He stood still as much as he could, with his club-foot\nbehind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and he was\nconstantly on the look out for any reference to it. Because he could not\njoin in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to\nhim; he only interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it\nseemed to him that there was a barrier between them and him. Sometimes\nthey seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football,\nand he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to\nhimself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became\nsilent. He began to think of the difference between himself and others.\n\nThe biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him, and\nPhilip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard\ntreatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran through the school\nfor a game called Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table or a form\nwith steel pens. You had to push your nib with the finger-nail so as to\nget the point of it over your opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent\nthis and to get the point of his nib over the back of yours; when this\nresult was achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb, pressed it\nhard on the two nibs, and if you were able then to lift them without\ndropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon nothing was seen but boys\nplaying this game, and the more skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. But\nin a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind that it was a form of\ngambling, forbade the game, and confiscated all the nibs in the boys'\npossession. Philip had been very adroit, and it was with a heavy heart\nthat he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still, and a\nfew days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and\nbought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and\nenjoyed feeling them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer\nhad given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called\na Jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the\nopportunity of getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he\nwas at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous\ndisposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that\nSinger would not allow him to refuse. He had not played for a week and sat\ndown to the game now with a thrill of excitement. He lost two of his small\nnibs quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance\nthe Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He\ncrowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" he asked.\n\nHe looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered.\n\n\"Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that idiotic game?\"\n\nPhilip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was dreadfully\nfrightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. He had never\nbeen swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was something to boast about\nafterwards.\n\n\"Come into my study.\"\n\nThe headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer whispered\nto Philip:\n\n\"We're in for it.\"\n\nMr. Watson pointed to Singer.\n\n\"Bend over,\" he said.\n\nPhilip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the third\nhe heard him cry out. Three more followed.\n\n\"That'll do. Get up.\"\n\nSinger stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip stepped\nforward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment.\n\n\"I'm not going to cane you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a cripple.\nGo away, both of you, and don't be naughty again.\"\n\nWhen they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had learned\nin some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting for them. They set\nupon Singer at once with eager questions. Singer faced them, his face red\nwith the pain and marks of tears still on his cheeks. He pointed with his\nhead at Philip, who was standing a little behind him.\n\n\"He got off because he's a cripple,\" he said angrily.\n\nPhilip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him with\ncontempt.\n\n\"How many did you get?\" one boy asked Singer.\n\nBut he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt\n\n\"Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again,\" he said to Philip. \"It's jolly\nnice for you. You don't risk anything.\"\n\n\"I didn't ask you.\"\n\n\"Didn't you!\"\n\nHe quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always\nrather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground.\n\n\"Cripple,\" said Singer.\n\nFor the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though Philip\ntried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it was\nimpossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself,\nso far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife he was not\nplacated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the\nbigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and\nhe was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was\nthat which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of\napologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear.\nAnd what made it worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness;\nSinger was only eleven and would not go to the upper school till he was\nthirteen. Philip realised that he must live two years with a tormentor\nfrom whom there was no escape. He was only happy while he was working and\nwhen he got into bed. And often there recurred to him then that queer\nfeeling that his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and\nthat he would awake in the morning in his own little bed in London.\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nTwo years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the first form,\nwithin two or three places of the top, and after Christmas when several\nboys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head boy. He had\nalready quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in\ngorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position had\nfreed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows forgave him\nhis success because of his deformity.\n\n\"After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes,\" they said, \"there's\nnothing he CAN do but swat.\"\n\nHe had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to the loud\nvoice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on his shoulder\nPhilip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He had the good memory\nwhich is more useful for scholastic achievements than mental power, and he\nknew Mr. Watson expected him to leave the preparatory school with a\nscholarship.\n\nBut he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does not realise\nthat his body is more a part of himself than surrounding objects, and will\nplay with his toes without any feeling that they belong to him more than\nthe rattle by his side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he\nunderstands the fact of the body. And experiences of the same kind are\nnecessary for the individual to become conscious of himself; but here\nthere is the difference that, although everyone becomes equally conscious\nof his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does not become\nequally conscious of himself as a complete and separate personality. The\nfeeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not\nalways developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the\nindividual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he,\nas little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in\nlife, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are\nshared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are\nenjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead\nHeath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mall\ncheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has been\ncalled a social animal.\n\nPhilip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness of\nhimself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. The circumstances\nof his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to them the\nready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs, and he was\nforced to think for himself. The many books he had read filled his mind\nwith ideas which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope to\nhis imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was growing up\nwithin him, and obscurely he realised his personality. But at times it\ngave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why, and afterwards\nwhen he thought of them found himself all at sea.\n\nThere was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a friendship had\narisen, and one day, when they were playing together in the school-room,\nLuard began to perform some trick with an ebony pen-holder of Philip's.\n\n\"Don't play the giddy ox,\" said Philip. \"You'll only break it.\"\n\n\"I shan't.\"\n\nBut no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the pen-holder\nsnapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay.\n\n\"Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry.\"\n\nThe tears rolled down Philip's cheeks, but he did not answer.\n\n\"I say, what's the matter?\" said Luard, with surprise. \"I'll get you\nanother one exactly the same.\"\n\n\"It's not about the pen-holder I care,\" said Philip, in a trembling voice,\n\"only it was given me by my mater, just before she died.\"\n\n\"I say, I'm awfully sorry, Carey.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault.\"\n\nPhilip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them. He tried\nto restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he could not tell\nwhy, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder during his\nlast holidays at Blackstable for one and twopence. He did not know in the\nleast what had made him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite as\nunhappy as though it had been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarage\nand the religious tone of the school had made Philip's conscience very\nsensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the Tempter\nwas ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was not\nmore truthful than most boys he never told a lie without suffering from\nremorse. When he thought over this incident he was very much distressed,\nand made up his mind that he must go to Luard and tell him that the story\nwas an invention. Though he dreaded humiliation more than anything in the\nworld, he hugged himself for two or three days at the thought of the\nagonising joy of humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never got\nany further. He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method of\nexpressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he could not\nunderstand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story he\nwas making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were real\ntears. Then by some accident of association there occurred to him that\nscene when Emma had told him of his mother's death, and, though he could\nnot speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to the\nMisses Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him.\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nThen a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad language was no\nlonger heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked upon\nwith hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the Middle\nAges, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker than\nthemselves to virtuous courses.\n\nPhilip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. He\nheard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League, and wrote to\nLondon for particulars. These consisted in a form to be filled up with the\napplicant's name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be signed that\nhe would read a set portion of Holy Scripture every night for a year; and\na request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was demanded partly to\nprove the earnestness of the applicant's desire to become a member of the\nLeague, and partly to cover clerical expenses. Philip duly sent the papers\nand the money, and in return received a calendar worth about a penny, on\nwhich was set down the appointed passage to be read each day, and a sheet\nof paper on one side of which was a picture of the Good Shepherd and a\nlamb, and on the other, decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer\nwhich had to be said before beginning to read.\n\nEvery evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time\nfor his task before the gas was put out. He read industriously, as he read\nalways, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit, ingratitude,\ndishonesty, and low cunning. Actions which would have excited his horror\nin the life about him, in the reading passed through his mind without\ncomment, because they were committed under the direct inspiration of God.\nThe method of the League was to alternate a book of the Old Testament with\na book of the New, and one night Philip came across these words of Jesus\nChrist:\n\nIf ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done\nto the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou\nremoved, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done.\n\nAnd all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall\nreceive.\n\nThey made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or\nthree days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence chose them for the\ntext of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted to hear this it would have\nbeen impossible, for the boys of King's School sit in the choir, and the\npulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the preacher's back is\nalmost turned to them. The distance also is so great that it needs a man\nwith a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to make himself heard in\nthe choir; and according to long usage the Canons of Tercanbury are chosen\nfor their learning rather than for any qualities which might be of use in\na cathedral church. But the words of the text, perhaps because he had read\nthem so short a while before, came clearly enough to Philip's ears, and\nthey seemed on a sudden to have a personal application. He thought about\nthem through most of the sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he\nturned over the pages of the Gospel and found once more the passage.\nThough he believed implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned\nalready that in the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often\nmysteriously meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at school, so\nhe kept the question he had in mind till the Christmas holidays, and then\none day he made an opportunity. It was after supper and prayers were just\nfinished. Mrs. Carey was counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in as\nusual and writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table and\npretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible.\n\n\"I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean that?\"\n\nHe put his finger against it as though he had come across it accidentally.\n\nMr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding The Blackstable\nTimes in front of the fire. It had come in that evening damp from the\npress, and the Vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to\nread.\n\n\"What passage is that?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains.\"\n\n\"If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip,\" said Mrs. Carey gently,\ntaking up the plate-basket.\n\nPhilip looked at his uncle for an answer.\n\n\"It's a matter of faith.\"\n\n\"D'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains\nyou could?\"\n\n\"By the grace of God,\" said the Vicar.\n\n\"Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip,\" said Aunt Louisa. \"You're not\nwanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?\"\n\nPhilip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and\npreceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he wanted. His\nlittle room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. But he\nalways felt that his prayers were more pleasing to God when he said them\nunder conditions of discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet were an\noffering to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees; buried his\nface in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that He would make\nhis club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the moving of\nmountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished, and his own faith\nwas complete. Next morning, finishing his prayers with the same request,\nhe fixed a date for the miracle.\n\n\"Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will, please make\nmy foot all right on the night before I go back to school.\"\n\nHe was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it later\nin the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar always made\nafter prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said it again in the\nevening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into bed.\nAnd he believed. For once he looked forward with eagerness to the end of\nthe holidays. He laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle's\nastonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after\nbreakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of\nboots. At school they would be astounded.\n\n\"Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all right now,\" he would answer casually, as though it were the\nmost natural thing in the world.\n\nHe would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself\nrunning, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the\nEaster term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for the\nraces; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be splendid to\nbe like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new boys who did\nnot know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need\nincredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his\nfoot in the water.\n\nHe prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He was\nconfident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go back to\nschool he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was snow on the\nground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a\nfire in her bed-room; but in Philip's little room it was so cold that his\nfingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. His\nteeth chattered. The idea came to him that he must do something more than\nusual to attract the attention of God, and he turned back the rug which\nwas in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards; and\nthen it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might displease\nhis Maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked. When he got into\nbed he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did,\nit was so soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when she brought in his\nhot water next morning. She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but\nhe did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for\nthe miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first\ninstinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now,\nbut to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that his foot\nwas well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the toes of his right\nfoot he just touched his left. Then he passed his hand over it.\n\nHe limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the dining-room for\nprayers, and then he sat down to breakfast.\n\n\"You're very quiet this morning, Philip,\" said Aunt Louisa presently.\n\n\"He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school to-morrow,\" said\nthe Vicar.\n\nWhen Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle,\nwith something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. He called\nit a bad habit of wool-gathering.\n\n\"Supposing you'd asked God to do something,\" said Philip, \"and really\nbelieved it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, I mean, and you\nhad faith, and it didn't happen, what would it mean?\"\n\n\"What a funny boy you are!\" said Aunt Louisa. \"You asked about moving\nmountains two or three weeks ago.\"\n\n\"It would just mean that you hadn't got faith,\" answered Uncle William.\n\nPhilip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it was because\nhe did not really believe. And yet he did not see how he could believe\nmore than he did. But perhaps he had not given God enough time. He had\nonly asked Him for nineteen days. In a day or two he began his prayer\nagain, and this time he fixed upon Easter. That was the day of His Son's\nglorious resurrection, and God in His happiness might be mercifully\ninclined. But now Philip added other means of attaining his desire: he\nbegan to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse, and he looked\nout for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken at the vicarage,\nand he broke the lucky bone with Aunt Louisa and wished again, each time\nthat his foot might be made whole. He was appealing unconsciously to gods\nolder to his race than the God of Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty\nwith his prayer, at odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to him, in\nidentical words always, for it seemed to him important to make his request\nin the same terms. But presently the feeling came to him that this time\nalso his faith would not be great enough. He could not resist the doubt\nthat assailed him. He made his own experience into a general rule.\n\n\"I suppose no one ever has faith enough,\" he said.\n\nIt was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you could\ncatch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had taken a little\nbag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he could never get near enough to\nput the salt on a bird's tail. Before Easter he had given up the struggle.\nHe felt a dull resentment against his uncle for taking him in. The text\nwhich spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of those that said one\nthing and meant another. He thought his uncle had been playing a practical\njoke on him.\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nThe King's School at Tercanbury, to which Philip went when he was\nthirteen, prided itself on its antiquity. It traced its origin to an abbey\nschool, founded before the Conquest, where the rudiments of learning were\ntaught by Augustine monks; and, like many another establishment of this\nsort, on the destruction of the monasteries it had been reorganised by the\nofficers of King Henry VIII and thus acquired its name. Since then,\npursuing its modest course, it had given to the sons of the local gentry\nand of the professional people of Kent an education sufficient to their\nneeds. One or two men of letters, beginning with a poet, than whom only\nShakespeare had a more splendid genius, and ending with a writer of prose\nwhose view of life has affected profoundly the generation of which Philip\nwas a member, had gone forth from its gates to achieve fame; it had\nproduced one or two eminent lawyers, but eminent lawyers are common, and\none or two soldiers of distinction; but during the three centuries since\nits separation from the monastic order it had trained especially men of\nthe church, bishops, deans, canons, and above all country clergymen: there\nwere boys in the school whose fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers,\nhad been educated there and had all been rectors of parishes in the\ndiocese of Tercanbury; and they came to it with their minds made up\nalready to be ordained. But there were signs notwithstanding that even\nthere changes were coming; for a few, repeating what they had heard at\nhome, said that the Church was no longer what it used to be. It wasn't so\nmuch the money; but the class of people who went in for it weren't the\nsame; and two or three boys knew curates whose fathers were tradesmen:\nthey'd rather go out to the Colonies (in those days the Colonies were\nstill the last hope of those who could get nothing to do in England) than\nbe a curate under some chap who wasn't a gentleman. At King's School, as\nat Blackstable Vicarage, a tradesman was anyone who was not lucky enough\nto own land (and here a fine distinction was made between the gentleman\nfarmer and the landowner), or did not follow one of the four professions\nto which it was possible for a gentleman to belong. Among the day-boys, of\nwhom there were about a hundred and fifty, sons of the local gentry and of\nthe men stationed at the depot, those whose fathers were engaged in\nbusiness were made to feel the degradation of their state.\n\nThe masters had no patience with modern ideas of education, which they\nread of sometimes in The Times or The Guardian, and hoped fervently\nthat King's School would remain true to its old traditions. The dead\nlanguages were taught with such thoroughness that an old boy seldom\nthought of Homer or Virgil in after life without a qualm of boredom; and\nthough in the common room at dinner one or two bolder spirits suggested\nthat mathematics were of increasing importance, the general feeling was\nthat they were a less noble study than the classics. Neither German nor\nchemistry was taught, and French only by the form-masters; they could keep\norder better than a foreigner, and, since they knew the grammar as well as\nany Frenchman, it seemed unimportant that none of them could have got a\ncup of coffee in the restaurant at Boulogne unless the waiter had known a\nlittle English. Geography was taught chiefly by making boys draw maps, and\nthis was a favourite occupation, especially when the country dealt with\nwas mountainous: it was possible to waste a great deal of time in drawing\nthe Andes or the Apennines. The masters, graduates of Oxford or Cambridge,\nwere ordained and unmarried; if by chance they wished to marry they could\nonly do so by accepting one of the smaller livings at the disposal of the\nChapter; but for many years none of them had cared to leave the refined\nsociety of Tercanbury, which owing to the cavalry depot had a martial as\nwell as an ecclesiastical tone, for the monotony of life in a country\nrectory; and they were now all men of middle age.\n\nThe headmaster, on the other hand, was obliged to be married and he\nconducted the school till age began to tell upon him. When he retired he\nwas rewarded with a much better living than any of the under-masters could\nhope for, and an honorary Canonry.\n\nBut a year before Philip entered the school a great change had come over\nit. It had been obvious for some time that Dr. Fleming, who had been\nheadmaster for the quarter of a century, was become too deaf to continue\nhis work to the greater glory of God; and when one of the livings on the\noutskirts of the city fell vacant, with a stipend of six hundred a year,\nthe Chapter offered it to him in such a manner as to imply that they\nthought it high time for him to retire. He could nurse his ailments\ncomfortably on such an income. Two or three curates who had hoped for\npreferment told their wives it was scandalous to give a parish that needed\na young, strong, and energetic man to an old fellow who knew nothing of\nparochial work, and had feathered his nest already; but the mutterings of\nthe unbeneficed clergy do not reach the ears of a cathedral Chapter. And\nas for the parishioners they had nothing to say in the matter, and\ntherefore nobody asked for their opinion. The Wesleyans and the Baptists\nboth had chapels in the village.\n\nWhen Dr. Fleming was thus disposed of it became necessary to find a\nsuccessor. It was contrary to the traditions of the school that one of the\nlower-masters should be chosen. The common-room was unanimous in desiring\nthe election of Mr. Watson, headmaster of the preparatory school; he could\nhardly be described as already a master of King's School, they had all\nknown him for twenty years, and there was no danger that he would make a\nnuisance of himself. But the Chapter sprang a surprise on them. It chose\na man called Perkins. At first nobody knew who Perkins was, and the name\nfavourably impressed no one; but before the shock of it had passed away,\nit was realised that Perkins was the son of Perkins the linendraper. Dr.\nFleming informed the masters just before dinner, and his manner showed his\nconsternation. Such of them as were dining in, ate their meal almost in\nsilence, and no reference was made to the matter till the servants had\nleft the room. Then they set to. The names of those present on this\noccasion are unimportant, but they had been known to generations of\nschool-boys as Sighs, Tar, Winks, Squirts, and Pat.\n\nThey all knew Tom Perkins. The first thing about him was that he was not\na gentleman. They remembered him quite well. He was a small, dark boy,\nwith untidy black hair and large eyes. He looked like a gipsy. He had come\nto the school as a day-boy, with the best scholarship on their endowment,\nso that his education had cost him nothing. Of course he was brilliant. At\nevery Speech-Day he was loaded with prizes. He was their show-boy, and\nthey remembered now bitterly their fear that he would try to get some\nscholarship at one of the larger public schools and so pass out of their\nhands. Dr. Fleming had gone to the linendraper his father--they all\nremembered the shop, Perkins and Cooper, in St. Catherine's Street--and\nsaid he hoped Tom would remain with them till he went to Oxford. The\nschool was Perkins and Cooper's best customer, and Mr. Perkins was only\ntoo glad to give the required assurance. Tom Perkins continued to triumph,\nhe was the finest classical scholar that Dr. Fleming remembered, and on\nleaving the school took with him the most valuable scholarship they had to\noffer. He got another at Magdalen and settled down to a brilliant career\nat the University. The school magazine recorded the distinctions he\nachieved year after year, and when he got his double first Dr. Fleming\nhimself wrote a few words of eulogy on the front page. It was with greater\nsatisfaction that they welcomed his success, since Perkins and Cooper had\nfallen upon evil days: Cooper drank like a fish, and just before Tom\nPerkins took his degree the linendrapers filed their petition in\nbankruptcy.\n\nIn due course Tom Perkins took Holy Orders and entered upon the profession\nfor which he was so admirably suited. He had been an assistant master at\nWellington and then at Rugby.\n\nBut there was quite a difference between welcoming his success at other\nschools and serving under his leadership in their own. Tar had frequently\ngiven him lines, and Squirts had boxed his ears. They could not imagine\nhow the Chapter had made such a mistake. No one could be expected to\nforget that he was the son of a bankrupt linendraper, and the alcoholism\nof Cooper seemed to increase the disgrace. It was understood that the Dean\nhad supported his candidature with zeal, so the Dean would probably ask\nhim to dinner; but would the pleasant little dinners in the precincts ever\nbe the same when Tom Perkins sat at the table? And what about the depot?\nHe really could not expect officers and gentlemen to receive him as one of\nthemselves. It would do the school incalculable harm. Parents would be\ndissatisfied, and no one could be surprised if there were wholesale\nwithdrawals. And then the indignity of calling him Mr. Perkins! The\nmasters thought by way of protest of sending in their resignations in a\nbody, but the uneasy fear that they would be accepted with equanimity\nrestrained them.\n\n\"The only thing is to prepare ourselves for changes,\" said Sighs, who had\nconducted the fifth form for five and twenty years with unparalleled\nincompetence.\n\nAnd when they saw him they were not reassured. Dr. Fleming invited them to\nmeet him at luncheon. He was now a man of thirty-two, tall and lean, but\nwith the same wild and unkempt look they remembered on him as a boy. His\nclothes, ill-made and shabby, were put on untidily. His hair was as black\nand as long as ever, and he had plainly never learned to brush it; it fell\nover his forehead with every gesture, and he had a quick movement of the\nhand with which he pushed it back from his eyes. He had a black moustache\nand a beard which came high up on his face almost to the cheek-bones, He\ntalked to the masters quite easily, as though he had parted from them a\nweek or two before; he was evidently delighted to see them. He seemed\nunconscious of the strangeness of the position and appeared not to notice\nany oddness in being addressed as Mr. Perkins.\n\nWhen he bade them good-bye, one of the masters, for something to say,\nremarked that he was allowing himself plenty of time to catch his train.\n\n\"I want to go round and have a look at the shop,\" he answered cheerfully.\n\nThere was a distinct embarrassment. They wondered that he could be so\ntactless, and to make it worse Dr. Fleming had not heard what he said. His\nwife shouted it in his ear.\n\n\"He wants to go round and look at his father's old shop.\"\n\nOnly Tom Perkins was unconscious of the humiliation which the whole party\nfelt. He turned to Mrs. Fleming.\n\n\"Who's got it now, d'you know?\"\n\nShe could hardly answer. She was very angry.\n\n\"It's still a linendraper's,\" she said bitterly. \"Grove is the name. We\ndon't deal there any more.\"\n\n\"I wonder if he'd let me go over the house.\"\n\n\"I expect he would if you explain who you are.\"\n\nIt was not till the end of dinner that evening that any reference was made\nin the common-room to the subject that was in all their minds. Then it was\nSighs who asked:\n\n\"Well, what did you think of our new head?\" They thought of the\nconversation at luncheon. It was hardly a conversation; it was a\nmonologue. Perkins had talked incessantly. He talked very quickly, with a\nflow of easy words and in a deep, resonant voice. He had a short, odd\nlittle laugh which showed his white teeth. They had followed him with\ndifficulty, for his mind darted from subject to subject with a connection\nthey did not always catch. He talked of pedagogics, and this was natural\nenough; but he had much to say of modern theories in Germany which they\nhad never heard of and received with misgiving. He talked of the classics,\nbut he had been to Greece, and he discoursed of archaeology; he had once\nspent a winter digging; they could not see how that helped a man to teach\nboys to pass examinations, He talked of politics. It sounded odd to them\nto hear him compare Lord Beaconsfield with Alcibiades. He talked of Mr.\nGladstone and Home Rule. They realised that he was a Liberal. Their hearts\nsank. He talked of German philosophy and of French fiction. They could not\nthink a man profound whose interests were so diverse.\n\nIt was Winks who summed up the general impression and put it into a form\nthey all felt conclusively damning. Winks was the master of the upper\nthird, a weak-kneed man with drooping eye-lids, He was too tall for his\nstrength, and his movements were slow and languid. He gave an impression\nof lassitude, and his nickname was eminently appropriate.\n\n\"He's very enthusiastic,\" said Winks.\n\nEnthusiasm was ill-bred. Enthusiasm was ungentlemanly. They thought of the\nSalvation Army with its braying trumpets and its drums. Enthusiasm meant\nchange. They had goose-flesh when they thought of all the pleasant old\nhabits which stood in imminent danger. They hardly dared to look forward\nto the future.\n\n\"He looks more of a gipsy than ever,\" said one, after a pause.\n\n\"I wonder if the Dean and Chapter knew that he was a Radical when they\nelected him,\" another observed bitterly.\n\nBut conversation halted. They were too much disturbed for words.\n\nWhen Tar and Sighs were walking together to the Chapter House on\nSpeech-Day a week later, Tar, who had a bitter tongue, remarked to his\ncolleague:\n\n\"Well, we've seen a good many Speech-Days here, haven't we? I wonder if we\nshall see another.\"\n\nSighs was more melancholy even than usual.\n\n\"If anything worth having comes along in the way of a living I don't mind\nwhen I retire.\"\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nA year passed, and when Philip came to the school the old masters were all\nin their places; but a good many changes had taken place notwithstanding\ntheir stubborn resistance, none the less formidable because it was\nconcealed under an apparent desire to fall in with the new head's ideas.\nThough the form-masters still taught French to the lower school, another\nmaster had come, with a degree of doctor of philology from the University\nof Heidelberg and a record of three years spent in a French lycee, to\nteach French to the upper forms and German to anyone who cared to take it\nup instead of Greek. Another master was engaged to teach mathematics more\nsystematically than had been found necessary hitherto. Neither of these\nwas ordained. This was a real revolution, and when the pair arrived the\nolder masters received them with distrust. A laboratory had been fitted\nup, army classes were instituted; they all said the character of the\nschool was changing. And heaven only knew what further projects Mr.\nPerkins turned in that untidy head of his. The school was small as public\nschools go, there were not more than two hundred boarders; and it was\ndifficult for it to grow larger, for it was huddled up against the\nCathedral; the precincts, with the exception of a house in which some of\nthe masters lodged, were occupied by the cathedral clergy; and there was\nno more room for building. But Mr. Perkins devised an elaborate scheme by\nwhich he might obtain sufficient space to make the school double its\npresent size. He wanted to attract boys from London. He thought it would\nbe good for them to be thrown in contact with the Kentish lads, and it\nwould sharpen the country wits of these.\n\n\"It's against all our traditions,\" said Sighs, when Mr. Perkins made the\nsuggestion to him. \"We've rather gone out of our way to avoid the\ncontamination of boys from London.\"\n\n\"Oh, what nonsense!\" said Mr. Perkins.\n\nNo one had ever told the form-master before that he talked nonsense, and\nhe was meditating an acid reply, in which perhaps he might insert a veiled\nreference to hosiery, when Mr. Perkins in his impetuous way attacked him\noutrageously.\n\n\"That house in the precincts--if you'd only marry I'd get the Chapter to\nput another couple of stories on, and we'd make dormitories and studies,\nand your wife could help you.\"\n\nThe elderly clergyman gasped. Why should he marry? He was fifty-seven, a\nman couldn't marry at fifty-seven. He couldn't start looking after a house\nat his time of life. He didn't want to marry. If the choice lay between\nthat and the country living he would much sooner resign. All he wanted now\nwas peace and quietness.\n\n\"I'm not thinking of marrying,\" he said.\n\nMr. Perkins looked at him with his dark, bright eyes, and if there was a\ntwinkle in them poor Sighs never saw it.\n\n\"What a pity! Couldn't you marry to oblige me? It would help me a great\ndeal with the Dean and Chapter when I suggest rebuilding your house.\"\n\nBut Mr. Perkins' most unpopular innovation was his system of taking\noccasionally another man's form. He asked it as a favour, but after all it\nwas a favour which could not be refused, and as Tar, otherwise Mr. Turner,\nsaid, it was undignified for all parties. He gave no warning, but after\nmorning prayers would say to one of the masters:\n\n\"I wonder if you'd mind taking the Sixth today at eleven. We'll change\nover, shall we?\"\n\nThey did not know whether this was usual at other schools, but certainly\nit had never been done at Tercanbury. The results were curious. Mr.\nTurner, who was the first victim, broke the news to his form that the\nheadmaster would take them for Latin that day, and on the pretence that\nthey might like to ask him a question or two so that they should not make\nperfect fools of themselves, spent the last quarter of an hour of the\nhistory lesson in construing for them the passage of Livy which had been\nset for the day; but when he rejoined his class and looked at the paper on\nwhich Mr. Perkins had written the marks, a surprise awaited him; for the\ntwo boys at the top of the form seemed to have done very ill, while others\nwho had never distinguished themselves before were given full marks. When\nhe asked Eldridge, his cleverest boy, what was the meaning of this the\nanswer came sullenly:\n\n\"Mr. Perkins never gave us any construing to do. He asked me what I knew\nabout General Gordon.\"\n\nMr. Turner looked at him in astonishment. The boys evidently felt they had\nbeen hardly used, and he could not help agreeing with their silent\ndissatisfaction. He could not see either what General Gordon had to do\nwith Livy. He hazarded an inquiry afterwards.\n\n\"Eldridge was dreadfully put out because you asked him what he knew about\nGeneral Gordon,\" he said to the headmaster, with an attempt at a chuckle.\n\nMr. Perkins laughed.\n\n\"I saw they'd got to the agrarian laws of Caius Gracchus, and I wondered\nif they knew anything about the agrarian troubles in Ireland. But all they\nknew about Ireland was that Dublin was on the Liffey. So I wondered if\nthey'd ever heard of General Gordon.\"\n\nThen the horrid fact was disclosed that the new head had a mania for\ngeneral information. He had doubts about the utility of examinations on\nsubjects which had been crammed for the occasion. He wanted common sense.\n\nSighs grew more worried every month; he could not get the thought out of\nhis head that Mr. Perkins would ask him to fix a day for his marriage; and\nhe hated the attitude the head adopted towards classical literature. There\nwas no doubt that he was a fine scholar, and he was engaged on a work\nwhich was quite in the right tradition: he was writing a treatise on the\ntrees in Latin literature; but he talked of it flippantly, as though it\nwere a pastime of no great importance, like billiards, which engaged his\nleisure but was not to be considered with seriousness. And Squirts, the\nmaster of the Middle Third, grew more ill-tempered every day.\n\nIt was in his form that Philip was put on entering the school. The Rev. B.\nB. Gordon was a man by nature ill-suited to be a schoolmaster: he was\nimpatient and choleric. With no one to call him to account, with only\nsmall boys to face him, he had long lost all power of self-control. He\nbegan his work in a rage and ended it in a passion. He was a man of middle\nheight and of a corpulent figure; he had sandy hair, worn very short and\nnow growing gray, and a small bristly moustache. His large face, with\nindistinct features and small blue eyes, was naturally red, but during his\nfrequent attacks of anger it grew dark and purple. His nails were bitten\nto the quick, for while some trembling boy was construing he would sit at\nhis desk shaking with the fury that consumed him, and gnaw his fingers.\nStories, perhaps exaggerated, were told of his violence, and two years\nbefore there had been some excitement in the school when it was heard that\none father was threatening a prosecution: he had boxed the ears of a boy\nnamed Walters with a book so violently that his hearing was affected and\nthe boy had to be taken away from the school. The boy's father lived in\nTercanbury, and there had been much indignation in the city, the local\npaper had referred to the matter; but Mr. Walters was only a brewer, so\nthe sympathy was divided. The rest of the boys, for reasons best known to\nthemselves, though they loathed the master, took his side in the affair,\nand, to show their indignation that the school's business had been dealt\nwith outside, made things as uncomfortable as they could for Walters'\nyounger brother, who still remained. But Mr. Gordon had only escaped the\ncountry living by the skin of his teeth, and he had never hit a boy since.\nThe right the masters possessed to cane boys on the hand was taken away\nfrom them, and Squirts could no longer emphasize his anger by beating his\ndesk with the cane. He never did more now than take a boy by the shoulders\nand shake him. He still made a naughty or refractory lad stand with one\narm stretched out for anything from ten minutes to half an hour, and he\nwas as violent as before with his tongue.\n\nNo master could have been more unfitted to teach things to so shy a boy as\nPhilip. He had come to the school with fewer terrors than he had when\nfirst he went to Mr. Watson's. He knew a good many boys who had been with\nhim at the preparatory school. He felt more grownup, and instinctively\nrealised that among the larger numbers his deformity would be less\nnoticeable. But from the first day Mr. Gordon struck terror in his heart;\nand the master, quick to discern the boys who were frightened of him,\nseemed on that account to take a peculiar dislike to him. Philip had\nenjoyed his work, but now he began to look upon the hours passed in school\nwith horror. Rather than risk an answer which might be wrong and excite a\nstorm of abuse from the master, he would sit stupidly silent, and when it\ncame towards his turn to stand up and construe he grew sick and white with\napprehension. His happy moments were those when Mr. Perkins took the form.\nHe was able to gratify the passion for general knowledge which beset the\nheadmaster; he had read all sorts of strange books beyond his years, and\noften Mr. Perkins, when a question was going round the room, would stop at\nPhilip with a smile that filled the boy with rapture, and say:\n\n\"Now, Carey, you tell them.\"\n\nThe good marks he got on these occasions increased Mr. Gordon's\nindignation. One day it came to Philip's turn to translate, and the master\nsat there glaring at him and furiously biting his thumb. He was in a\nferocious mood. Philip began to speak in a low voice.\n\n\"Don't mumble,\" shouted the master.\n\nSomething seemed to stick in Philip's throat.\n\n\"Go on. Go on. Go on.\"\n\nEach time the words were screamed more loudly. The effect was to drive all\nhe knew out of Philip's head, and he looked at the printed page vacantly.\nMr. Gordon began to breathe heavily.\n\n\"If you don't know why don't you say so? Do you know it or not? Did you\nhear all this construed last time or not? Why don't you speak? Speak, you\nblockhead, speak!\"\n\nThe master seized the arms of his chair and grasped them as though to\nprevent himself from falling upon Philip. They knew that in past days he\noften used to seize boys by the throat till they almost choked. The veins\nin his forehead stood out and his face grew dark and threatening. He was\na man insane.\n\nPhilip had known the passage perfectly the day before, but now he could\nremember nothing.\n\n\"I don't know it,\" he gasped.\n\n\"Why don't you know it? Let's take the words one by one. We'll soon see if\nyou don't know it.\"\n\nPhilip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his head bent\ndown on the book. The master's breathing grew almost stertorous.\n\n\"The headmaster says you're clever. I don't know how he sees it. General\ninformation.\" He laughed savagely. \"I don't know what they put you in his\nform for, Blockhead.\"\n\nHe was pleased with the word, and he repeated it at the top of his voice.\n\n\"Blockhead! Blockhead! Club-footed blockhead!\"\n\nThat relieved him a little. He saw Philip redden suddenly. He told him to\nfetch the Black Book. Philip put down his Caesar and went silently out.\nThe Black Book was a sombre volume in which the names of boys were written\nwith their misdeeds, and when a name was down three times it meant a\ncaning. Philip went to the headmaster's house and knocked at his\nstudy-door. Mr. Perkins was seated at his table.\n\n\"May I have the Black Book, please, sir.\"\n\n\"There it is,\" answered Mr. Perkins, indicating its place by a nod of his\nhead. \"What have you been doing that you shouldn't?\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nMr. Perkins gave him a quick look, but without answering went on with his\nwork. Philip took the book and went out. When the hour was up, a few\nminutes later, he brought it back.\n\n\"Let me have a look at it,\" said the headmaster. \"I see Mr. Gordon has\nblack-booked you for 'gross impertinence.' What was it?\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir. Mr. Gordon said I was a club-footed blockhead.\"\n\nMr. Perkins looked at him again. He wondered whether there was sarcasm\nbehind the boy's reply, but he was still much too shaken. His face was\nwhite and his eyes had a look of terrified distress. Mr. Perkins got up\nand put the book down. As he did so he took up some photographs.\n\n\"A friend of mine sent me some pictures of Athens this morning,\" he said\ncasually. \"Look here, there's the Akropolis.\"\n\nHe began explaining to Philip what he saw. The ruin grew vivid with his\nwords. He showed him the theatre of Dionysus and explained in what order\nthe people sat, and how beyond they could see the blue Aegean. And then\nsuddenly he said:\n\n\"I remember Mr. Gordon used to call me a gipsy counter-jumper when I was\nin his form.\"\n\nAnd before Philip, his mind fixed on the photographs, had time to gather\nthe meaning of the remark, Mr. Perkins was showing him a picture of\nSalamis, and with his finger, a finger of which the nail had a little\nblack edge to it, was pointing out how the Greek ships were placed and how\nthe Persian.\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nPhilip passed the next two years with comfortable monotony. He was not\nbullied more than other boys of his size; and his deformity, withdrawing\nhim from games, acquired for him an insignificance for which he was\ngrateful. He was not popular, and he was very lonely. He spent a couple of\nterms with Winks in the Upper Third. Winks, with his weary manner and his\ndrooping eyelids, looked infinitely bored. He did his duty, but he did it\nwith an abstracted mind. He was kind, gentle, and foolish. He had a great\nbelief in the honour of boys; he felt that the first thing to make them\ntruthful was not to let it enter your head for a moment that it was\npossible for them to lie. \"Ask much,\" he quoted, \"and much shall be given\nto you.\" Life was easy in the Upper Third. You knew exactly what lines\nwould come to your turn to construe, and with the crib that passed from\nhand to hand you could find out all you wanted in two minutes; you could\nhold a Latin Grammar open on your knees while questions were passing\nround; and Winks never noticed anything odd in the fact that the same\nincredible mistake was to be found in a dozen different exercises. He had\nno great faith in examinations, for he noticed that boys never did so well\nin them as in form: it was disappointing, but not significant. In due\ncourse they were moved up, having learned little but a cheerful effrontery\nin the distortion of truth, which was possibly of greater service to them\nin after life than an ability to read Latin at sight.\n\nThen they fell into the hands of Tar. His name was Turner; he was the most\nvivacious of the old masters, a short man with an immense belly, a black\nbeard turning now to gray, and a swarthy skin. In his clerical dress there\nwas indeed something in him to suggest the tar-barrel; and though on\nprinciple he gave five hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard\nhis nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made little\njokes about it. He was the most worldly of the masters; he dined out more\nfrequently than any of the others, and the society he kept was not so\nexclusively clerical. The boys looked upon him as rather a dog. He left\noff his clerical attire during the holidays and had been seen in\nSwitzerland in gay tweeds. He liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner,\nand having once been seen at the Cafe Royal with a lady who was very\nprobably a near relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of\nschoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of which\npointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity.\n\nMr. Turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into shape after\nthey had been in the Upper Third; and now and then he let fall a sly hint,\nwhich showed that he knew perfectly what went on in his colleague's form.\nHe took it good-humouredly. He looked upon boys as young ruffians who were\nmore apt to be truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out,\nwhose sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to\ndealings with masters, and who were least likely to be troublesome when\nthey learned that it did not pay. He was proud of his form and as eager at\nfifty-five that it should do better in examinations than any of the others\nas he had been when he first came to the school. He had the choler of the\nobese, easily roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered\nthat there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he\nconstantly assailed them. He had no patience with fools, but was willing\nto take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of concealing\nintelligence behind their wilfulness. He was fond of inviting them to tea;\nand, though vowing they never got a look in with him at the cakes and\nmuffins, for it was the fashion to believe that his corpulence pointed to\na voracious appetite, and his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they\naccepted his invitations with real pleasure.\n\nPhilip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that there were\nonly studies for boys in the upper school, and till then he had lived in\nthe great hall in which they all ate and in which the lower forms did\npreparation in a promiscuity which was vaguely distasteful to him. Now and\nthen it made him restless to be with people and he wanted urgently to be\nalone. He set out for solitary walks into the country. There was a little\nstream, with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green fields,\nand it made him happy, he knew not why, to wander along its banks. When he\nwas tired he lay face-downward on the grass and watched the eager\nscurrying of minnows and of tadpoles. It gave him a peculiar satisfaction\nto saunter round the precincts. On the green in the middle they practised\nat nets in the summer, but during the rest of the year it was quiet: boys\nused to wander round sometimes arm in arm, or a studious fellow with\nabstracted gaze walked slowly, repeating to himself something he had to\nlearn by heart. There was a colony of rooks in the great elms, and they\nfilled the air with melancholy cries. Along one side lay the Cathedral\nwith its great central tower, and Philip, who knew as yet nothing of\nbeauty, felt when he looked at it a troubling delight which he could not\nunderstand. When he had a study (it was a little square room looking on a\nslum, and four boys shared it), he bought a photograph of that view of the\nCathedral, and pinned it up over his desk. And he found himself taking a\nnew interest in what he saw from the window of the Fourth Form room. It\nlooked on to old lawns, carefully tended, and fine trees with foliage\ndense and rich. It gave him an odd feeling in his heart, and he did not\nknow if it was pain or pleasure. It was the first dawn of the aesthetic\nemotion. It accompanied other changes. His voice broke. It was no longer\nquite under his control, and queer sounds issued from his throat.\n\nThen he began to go to the classes which were held in the headmaster's\nstudy, immediately after tea, to prepare boys for confirmation. Philip's\npiety had not stood the test of time, and he had long since given up his\nnightly reading of the Bible; but now, under the influence of Mr. Perkins,\nwith this new condition of the body which made him so restless, his old\nfeelings revived, and he reproached himself bitterly for his backsliding.\nThe fires of Hell burned fiercely before his mind's eye. If he had died\nduring that time when he was little better than an infidel he would have\nbeen lost; he believed implicitly in pain everlasting, he believed in it\nmuch more than in eternal happiness; and he shuddered at the dangers he\nhad run.\n\nSince the day on which Mr. Perkins had spoken kindly to him, when he was\nsmarting under the particular form of abuse which he could least bear,\nPhilip had conceived for his headmaster a dog-like adoration. He racked\nhis brains vainly for some way to please him. He treasured the smallest\nword of commendation which by chance fell from his lips. And when he came\nto the quiet little meetings in his house he was prepared to surrender\nhimself entirely. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Perkins' shining eyes, and\nsat with mouth half open, his head a little thrown forward so as to miss\nno word. The ordinariness of the surroundings made the matters they dealt\nwith extraordinarily moving. And often the master, seized himself by the\nwonder of his subject, would push back the book in front of him, and with\nhis hands clasped together over his heart, as though to still the beating,\nwould talk of the mysteries of their religion. Sometimes Philip did not\nunderstand, but he did not want to understand, he felt vaguely that it was\nenough to feel. It seemed to him then that the headmaster, with his black,\nstraggling hair and his pale face, was like those prophets of Israel who\nfeared not to take kings to task; and when he thought of the Redeemer he\nsaw Him only with the same dark eyes and those wan cheeks.\n\nMr. Perkins took this part of his work with great seriousness. There was\nnever here any of that flashing humour which made the other masters\nsuspect him of flippancy. Finding time for everything in his busy day, he\nwas able at certain intervals to take separately for a quarter of an hour\nor twenty minutes the boys whom he was preparing for confirmation. He\nwanted to make them feel that this was the first consciously serious step\nin their lives; he tried to grope into the depths of their souls; he\nwanted to instil in them his own vehement devotion. In Philip,\nnotwithstanding his shyness, he felt the possibility of a passion equal to\nhis own. The boy's temperament seemed to him essentially religious. One\nday he broke off suddenly from the subject on which he had been talking.\n\n\"Have you thought at all what you're going to be when you grow up?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"My uncle wants me to be ordained,\" said Philip.\n\n\"And you?\"\n\nPhilip looked away. He was ashamed to answer that he felt himself\nunworthy.\n\n\"I don't know any life that's so full of happiness as ours. I wish I could\nmake you feel what a wonderful privilege it is. One can serve God in every\nwalk, but we stand nearer to Him. I don't want to influence you, but if\nyou made up your mind--oh, at once--you couldn't help feeling that joy and\nrelief which never desert one again.\"\n\nPhilip did not answer, but the headmaster read in his eyes that he\nrealised already something of what he tried to indicate.\n\n\"If you go on as you are now you'll find yourself head of the school one\nof these days, and you ought to be pretty safe for a scholarship when you\nleave. Have you got anything of your own?\"\n\n\"My uncle says I shall have a hundred a year when I'm twenty-one.\"\n\n\"You'll be rich. I had nothing.\"\n\nThe headmaster hesitated a moment, and then, idly drawing lines with a\npencil on the blotting paper in front of him, went on.\n\n\"I'm afraid your choice of professions will be rather limited. You\nnaturally couldn't go in for anything that required physical activity.\"\n\nPhilip reddened to the roots of his hair, as he always did when any\nreference was made to his club-foot. Mr. Perkins looked at him gravely.\n\n\"I wonder if you're not oversensitive about your misfortune. Has it ever\nstruck you to thank God for it?\"\n\nPhilip looked up quickly. His lips tightened. He remembered how for\nmonths, trusting in what they told him, he had implored God to heal him as\nHe had healed the Leper and made the Blind to see.\n\n\"As long as you accept it rebelliously it can only cause you shame. But if\nyou looked upon it as a cross that was given you to bear only because your\nshoulders were strong enough to bear it, a sign of God's favour, then it\nwould be a source of happiness to you instead of misery.\"\n\nHe saw that the boy hated to discuss the matter and he let him go.\n\nBut Philip thought over all that the headmaster had said, and presently,\nhis mind taken up entirely with the ceremony that was before him, a\nmystical rapture seized him. His spirit seemed to free itself from the\nbonds of the flesh and he seemed to be living a new life. He aspired to\nperfection with all the passion that was in him. He wanted to surrender\nhimself entirely to the service of God, and he made up his mind definitely\nthat he would be ordained. When the great day arrived, his soul deeply\nmoved by all the preparation, by the books he had studied and above all by\nthe overwhelming influence of the head, he could hardly contain himself\nfor fear and joy. One thought had tormented him. He knew that he would\nhave to walk alone through the chancel, and he dreaded showing his limp\nthus obviously, not only to the whole school, who were attending the\nservice, but also to the strangers, people from the city or parents who\nhad come to see their sons confirmed. But when the time came he felt\nsuddenly that he could accept the humiliation joyfully; and as he limped\nup the chancel, very small and insignificant beneath the lofty vaulting of\nthe Cathedral, he offered consciously his deformity as a sacrifice to the\nGod who loved him.\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nBut Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. What\nhad happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotion\nhappened to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith,\nbecause the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a\ngem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was\ntired out by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on a sudden\nwith a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of God which had\nseemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still very punctually\nperformed, grew merely formal. At first he blamed himself for this falling\naway, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence; but the\npassion was dead, and gradually other interests distracted his thoughts.\n\nPhilip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became such\na need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and\nrestless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the\nperusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill to\nhide his contempt for his companions' stupidity. They complained that he\nwas conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to them were\nunimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited about. He\nwas developing a sense of humour, and found that he had a knack of saying\nbitter things, which caught people on the raw; he said them because they\namused him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much offended\nwhen he found that his victims regarded him with active dislike. The\nhumiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in him a\nshrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; he\nremained shy and silent. But though he did everything to alienate the\nsympathy of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularity\nwhich to some was so easily accorded. These from his distance he admired\nextravagantly; and though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them\nthan with others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he would\nhave given anything to change places with them. Indeed he would gladly\nhave changed places with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of\nlimb. He took to a singular habit. He would imagine that he was some boy\nwhom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were,\ninto the other's body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; he\nwould imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vivid\nthat he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way he\nenjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness.\n\nAt the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his confirmation\nPhilip found himself moved into another study. One of the boys who shared\nit was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip, and Philip had\nalways looked upon him with envious admiration. He was not good-looking;\nthough his large hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tall\nman, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he laughed\n(he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round them in a jolly\nway. He was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at his work and\nbetter at games. He was a favourite with masters and boys, and he in his\nturn liked everyone.\n\nWhen Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others,\nwho had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It made him\nnervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide his\nfeelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose, because he\nwas as little able as anyone else to resist his charm, Philip was even\nmore than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on account of this,\nunconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only by\nthe results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was Rose who\nfirst took Philip into the circle. One day, quite suddenly, he asked\nPhilip if he would walk to the football field with him. Philip flushed.\n\n\"I can't walk fast enough for you,\" he said.\n\n\"Rot. Come on.\"\n\nAnd just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the\nstudy-door and asked Rose to go with him.\n\n\"I can't,\" he answered. \"I've already promised Carey.\"\n\n\"Don't bother about me,\" said Philip quickly. \"I shan't mind.\"\n\n\"Rot,\" said Rose.\n\nHe looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed.\nPhilip felt a curious tremor in his heart.\n\nIn a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pair\nwere inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and Rose\nwas asked what he saw in Philip.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" he answered. \"He's not half a bad chap really.\"\n\nSoon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or\nstrolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the other\ncould be found also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boys\nwho wanted Rose would leave messages with Carey. Philip at first was\nreserved. He would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy that\nfilled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way before a wild\nhappiness. He thought Rose the most wonderful fellow he had ever seen. His\nbooks now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when there\nwas something infinitely more important to occupy him. Rose's friends used\nto come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was\nnothing better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and they\nfound that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy.\n\nWhen the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they\nshould come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in\nthe town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart.\nHe thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with\nthe things they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage,\nand when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual\nfacetious tone:\n\n\"Well, are you glad to be going back to school?\"\n\nPhilip answered joyfully.\n\n\"Rather.\"\n\nIn order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier\ntrain than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour.\nWhen the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change,\nhe ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell\nhim when another train was due, and he waited; but again he was\ndisappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through\nside-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in the\nstudy, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozen\nwith half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on.\nHe shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip's face fell, for\nhe realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment.\n\n\"I say, why are you so late?\" said Rose. \"I thought you were never\ncoming.\"\n\n\"You were at the station at half-past four,\" said another boy. \"I saw you\nwhen I came.\"\n\nPhilip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been\nsuch a fool as to wait for him.\n\n\"I had to see about a friend of my people's,\" he invented readily. \"I was\nasked to see her off.\"\n\nBut his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and\nwhen spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to\nhave it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had gone\nRose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was\nlounging.\n\n\"I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. Ripping, isn't\nit?\"\n\nHe seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's annoyance\nvanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to\ntalk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them.\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nAt first Philip had been too grateful for Rose's friendship to make any\ndemands on him. He took things as they came and enjoyed life. But\npresently he began to resent Rose's universal amiability; he wanted a more\nexclusive attachment, and he claimed as a right what before he had\naccepted as a favour. He watched jealously Rose's companionship with\nothers; and though he knew it was unreasonable could not help sometimes\nsaying bitter things to him. If Rose spent an hour playing the fool in\nanother study, Philip would receive him when he returned to his own with\na sullen frown. He would sulk for a day, and he suffered more because Rose\neither did not notice his ill-humour or deliberately ignored it. Not\nseldom Philip, knowing all the time how stupid he was, would force a\nquarrel, and they would not speak to one another for a couple of days. But\nPhilip could not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced\nthat he was in the right, would apologise humbly. Then for a week they\nwould be as great friends as ever. But the best was over, and Philip could\nsee that Rose often walked with him merely from old habit or from fear of\nhis anger; they had not so much to say to one another as at first, and\nRose was often bored. Philip felt that his lameness began to irritate him.\n\nTowards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet fever, and\nthere was much talk of sending them all home in order to escape an\nepidemic; but the sufferers were isolated, and since no more were attacked\nit was supposed that the outbreak was stopped. One of the stricken was\nPhilip. He remained in hospital through the Easter holidays, and at the\nbeginning of the summer term was sent home to the vicarage to get a little\nfresh air. The Vicar, notwithstanding medical assurance that the boy was\nno longer infectious, received him with suspicion; he thought it very\ninconsiderate of the doctor to suggest that his nephew's convalescence\nshould be spent by the seaside, and consented to have him in the house\nonly because there was nowhere else he could go.\n\nPhilip went back to school at half-term. He had forgotten the quarrels he\nhad had with Rose, but remembered only that he was his greatest friend. He\nknew that he had been silly. He made up his mind to be more reasonable.\nDuring his illness Rose had sent him in a couple of little notes, and he\nhad ended each with the words: \"Hurry up and come back.\" Philip thought\nRose must be looking forward as much to his return as he was himself to\nseeing Rose.\n\nHe found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of the boys in\nthe Sixth there had been some shifting in the studies and Rose was no\nlonger in his. It was a bitter disappointment. But as soon as he arrived\nhe burst into Rose's study. Rose was sitting at his desk, working with a\nboy called Hunter, and turned round crossly as Philip came in.\n\n\"Who the devil's that?\" he cried. And then, seeing Philip: \"Oh, it's you.\"\n\nPhilip stopped in embarrassment.\n\n\"I thought I'd come in and see how you were.\"\n\n\"We were just working.\"\n\nHunter broke into the conversation.\n\n\"When did you get back?\"\n\n\"Five minutes ago.\"\n\nThey sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them. They\nevidently expected him to go quickly. Philip reddened.\n\n\"I'll be off. You might look in when you've done,\" he said to Rose.\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nPhilip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own study. He\nfelt frightfully hurt. Rose, far from seeming glad to see him, had looked\nalmost put out. They might never have been more than acquaintances. Though\nhe waited in his study, not leaving it for a moment in case just then Rose\nshould come, his friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in\nto prayers he saw Rose and Hunter singing along arm in arm. What he could\nnot see for himself others told him. He had forgotten that three months is\na long time in a schoolboy's life, and though he had passed them in\nsolitude Rose had lived in the world. Hunter had stepped into the vacant\nplace. Philip found that Rose was quietly avoiding him. But he was not the\nboy to accept a situation without putting it into words; he waited till he\nwas sure Rose was alone in his study and went in.\n\n\"May I come in?\" he asked.\n\nRose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with Philip.\n\n\"Yes, if you want to.\"\n\n\"It's very kind of you,\" said Philip sarcastically.\n\n\"What d'you want?\"\n\n\"I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't be an ass,\" said Rose.\n\n\"I don't know what you see in Hunter.\"\n\n\"That's my business.\"\n\nPhilip looked down. He could not bring himself to say what was in his\nheart. He was afraid of humiliating himself. Rose got up.\n\n\"I've got to go to the Gym,\" he said.\n\nWhen he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak.\n\n\"I say, Rose, don't be a perfect beast.\"\n\n\"Oh, go to hell.\"\n\nRose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone. Philip shivered\nwith rage. He went back to his study and turned the conversation over in\nhis mind. He hated Rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting\nthings he might have said to him. He brooded over the end to their\nfriendship and fancied that others were talking of it. In his\nsensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other fellows' manner when\nthey were not bothering their heads with him at all. He imagined to\nhimself what they were saying.\n\n\"After all, it wasn't likely to last long. I wonder he ever stuck Carey at\nall. Blighter!\"\n\nTo show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy\ncalled Sharp whom he hated and despised. He was a London boy, with a\nloutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip\nand bushy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose.\nHe had soft hands and manners too suave for his years. He spoke with the\nsuspicion of a cockney accent. He was one of those boys who are too slack\nto play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid\nsuch as were compulsory. He was regarded by boys and masters with a vague\ndislike, and it was from arrogance that Philip now sought his society.\nSharp in a couple of terms was going to Germany for a year. He hated\nschool, which he looked upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old\nenough to go out into the world. London was all he cared for, and he had\nmany stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays. From his\nconversation--he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice--there emerged the\nvague rumour of the London streets by night. Philip listened to him at\nonce fascinated and repelled. With his vivid fancy he seemed to see the\nsurging throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap\nrestaurants, bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with\nbarmaids; and under the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds\nbent upon pleasure. Sharp lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which\nPhilip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear.\n\nOnce Rose tried to effect a reconciliation. He was a good-natured fellow,\nwho did not like having enemies.\n\n\"I say, Carey, why are you being such a silly ass? It doesn't do you any\ngood cutting me and all that.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't talk.\"\n\n\"You bore me,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Please yourself.\"\n\nRose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very white, as he\nalways became when he was moved, and his heart beat violently. When Rose\nwent away he felt suddenly sick with misery. He did not know why he had\nanswered in that fashion. He would have given anything to be friends with\nRose. He hated to have quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had\ngiven him pain he was very sorry. But at the moment he had not been master\nof himself. It seemed that some devil had seized him, forcing him to say\nbitter things against his will, even though at the time he wanted to shake\nhands with Rose and meet him more than halfway. The desire to wound had\nbeen too strong for him. He had wanted to revenge himself for the pain and\nthe humiliation he had endured. It was pride: it was folly too, for he\nknew that Rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bitterly. The\nthought came to him that he would go to Rose, and say:\n\n\"I say, I'm sorry I was such a beast. I couldn't help it. Let's make it\nup.\"\n\nBut he knew he would never be able to do it. He was afraid that Rose would\nsneer at him. He was angry with himself, and when Sharp came in a little\nwhile afterwards he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him.\nPhilip had a fiendish instinct for discovering other people's raw spots,\nand was able to say things that rankled because they were true. But Sharp\nhad the last word.\n\n\"I heard Rose talking about you to Mellor just now,\" he said. \"Mellor\nsaid: Why didn't you kick him? It would teach him manners. And Rose said:\nI didn't like to. Damned cripple.\"\n\nPhilip suddenly became scarlet. He could not answer, for there was a lump\nin his throat that almost choked him.\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nPhilip was moved into the Sixth, but he hated school now with all his\nheart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing whether he did ill or\nwell. He awoke in the morning with a sinking heart because he must go\nthrough another day of drudgery. He was tired of having to do things\nbecause he was told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they were\nunreasonable, but because they were restrictions. He yearned for freedom.\nHe was weary of repeating things that he knew already and of the hammering\naway, for the sake of a thick-witted fellow, at something that he\nunderstood from the beginning.\n\nWith Mr. Perkins you could work or not as you chose. He was at once eager\nand abstracted. The Sixth Form room was in a part of the old abbey which\nhad been restored, and it had a gothic window: Philip tried to cheat his\nboredom by drawing this over and over again; and sometimes out of his head\nhe drew the great tower of the Cathedral or the gateway that led into the\nprecincts. He had a knack for drawing. Aunt Louisa during her youth had\npainted in water colours, and she had several albums filled with sketches\nof churches, old bridges, and picturesque cottages. They were often shown\nat the vicarage tea-parties. She had once given Philip a paint-box as a\nChristmas present, and he had started by copying her pictures. He copied\nthem better than anyone could have expected, and presently he did little\npictures of his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to keep\nhim out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful for\nbazaars. Two or three of them had been framed and hung in his bed-room.\n\nBut one day, at the end of the morning's work, Mr. Perkins stopped him as\nhe was lounging out of the form-room.\n\n\"I want to speak to you, Carey.\"\n\nPhilip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through his beard and\nlooked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say.\n\n\"What's the matter with you, Carey?\" he said abruptly.\n\nPhilip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him well by now,\nwithout answering, he waited for him to go on.\n\n\"I've been dissatisfied with you lately. You've been slack and\ninattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work. It's been slovenly\nand bad.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry, sir,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Is that all you have to say for yourself?\"\n\nPhilip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he was bored to\ndeath?\n\n\"You know, this term you'll go down instead of up. I shan't give you a\nvery good report.\"\n\nPhilip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was treated.\nIt arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced at it indifferently, and passed\nit over to Philip.\n\n\"There's your report. You'd better see what it says,\" he remarked, as he\nran his fingers through the wrapper of a catalogue of second-hand books.\n\nPhilip read it.\n\n\"Is it good?\" asked Aunt Louisa.\n\n\"Not so good as I deserve,\" answered Philip, with a smile, giving it to\nher.\n\n\"I'll read it afterwards when I've got my spectacles,\" she said.\n\nBut after breakfast Mary Ann came in to say the butcher was there, and she\ngenerally forgot.\n\nMr. Perkins went on.\n\n\"I'm disappointed with you. And I can't understand. I know you can do\nthings if you want to, but you don't seem to want to any more. I was going\nto make you a monitor next term, but I think I'd better wait a bit.\"\n\nPhilip flushed. He did not like the thought of being passed over. He\ntightened his lips.\n\n\"And there's something else. You must begin thinking of your scholarship\nnow. You won't get anything unless you start working very seriously.\"\n\nPhilip was irritated by the lecture. He was angry with the headmaster, and\nangry with himself.\n\n\"I don't think I'm going up to Oxford,\" he said.\n\n\"Why not? I thought your idea was to be ordained.\"\n\n\"I've changed my mind.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nPhilip did not answer. Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he always\ndid, like a figure in one of Perugino's pictures, drew his fingers\nthoughtfully through his beard. He looked at Philip as though he were\ntrying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go.\n\nApparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, when\nPhilip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed the\nconversation; but this time he adopted a different method: he spoke to\nPhilip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being with\nanother. He did not seem to care now that Philip's work was poor, that he\nran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship\nnecessary for him to go to Oxford: the important matter was his changed\nintention about his life afterwards. Mr. Perkins set himself to revive his\neagerness to be ordained. With infinite skill he worked on his feelings,\nand this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved. Philip's change\nof mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwing\naway his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what. His voice was\nvery persuasive. And Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very\nemotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior--his face, partly by\nnature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom except\nby his quick flushing showed what he felt--Philip was deeply touched by\nwhat the master said. He was very grateful to him for the interest he\nshowed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his\nbehaviour caused him. It was subtly flattering to know that with the whole\nschool to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but at the same\ntime something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow,\nclung desperately to two words.\n\n\"I won't. I won't. I won't.\"\n\nHe felt himself slipping. He was powerless against the weakness that\nseemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an empty\nbottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words over\nand over to himself.\n\n\"I won't. I won't. I won't.\"\n\nAt last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip's shoulder.\n\n\"I don't want to influence you,\" he said. \"You must decide for yourself.\nPray to Almighty God for help and guidance.\"\n\nWhen Philip came out of the headmaster's house there was a light rain\nfalling. He went under the archway that led to the precincts, there was\nnot a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms. He walked round\nslowly. He felt hot, and the rain did him good. He thought over all that\nMr. Perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of\nhis personality, and he was thankful he had not given way.\n\nIn the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the Cathedral:\nhe hated it now because of the irksomeness of the long services which he\nwas forced to attend. The anthem was interminable, and you had to stand\ndrearily while it was being sung; you could not hear the droning sermon,\nand your body twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted to\nmove about. Then Philip thought of the two services every Sunday at\nBlackstable. The church was bare and cold, and there was a smell all about\none of pomade and starched clothes. The curate preached once and his uncle\npreached once. As he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; Philip was\ndownright and intolerant, and he could not understand that a man might\nsincerely say things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man.\nThe deception outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish man, whose\nchief desire it was to be saved trouble.\n\nMr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to the\nservice of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in the\ncorner of East Anglia which was his home. There was the Vicar of\nWhitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable: he was a bachelor and\nto give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the local\npaper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court against\nthis one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen\nwhom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and\nthere was much talk about some general action which should be taken\nagainst him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure of\na man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, and\nshe had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. The Vicar\nof Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in the\npublic house a stone's throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had\nbeen to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of them\nto talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winter\nevenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless\ntrees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughed\nfields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemed\nto matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothing\nto restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this,\nbut in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He shivered\nat the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into the\nworld.\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n\nMr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip, and for\nthe rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report which was vitriolic.\nWhen it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like, he answered\ncheerfully.\n\n\"Rotten.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" said the Vicar. \"I must look at it again.\"\n\n\"Do you think there's any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I should\nhave thought it would be better if I went to Germany for a bit.\"\n\n\"What has put that in your head?\" said Aunt Louisa.\n\n\"Don't you think it's rather a good idea?\"\n\nSharp had already left King's School and had written to Philip from\nHanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip more restless to\nthink of it. He felt he could not bear another year of restraint.\n\n\"But then you wouldn't get a scholarship.\"\n\n\"I haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don't know that\nI particularly want to go to Oxford.\"\n\n\"But if you're going to be ordained, Philip?\" Aunt Louisa exclaimed in\ndismay.\n\n\"I've given up that idea long ago.\"\n\nMrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to\nself-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. They did\nnot speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks.\nHis heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. In her tight\nblack dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkled\nface and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolous\nringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure.\nPhilip saw it for the first time.\n\nAfterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, he\nput his arms round her waist.\n\n\"I say, I'm sorry you're upset, Aunt Louisa,\" he said. \"But it's no good\nmy being ordained if I haven't a real vocation, is it?\"\n\n\"I'm so disappointed, Philip,\" she moaned. \"I'd set my heart on it. I\nthought you could be your uncle's curate, and then when our time\ncame--after all, we can't last for ever, can we?--you might have taken his\nplace.\"\n\nPhilip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like a pigeon in\na trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly, her head upon his\nshoulder.\n\n\"I wish you'd persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury. I'm so\nsick of it.\"\n\nBut the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he had\nmade, and it had always been intended that Philip should stay at King's\nSchool till he was eighteen, and should then go to Oxford. At all events\nhe would not hear of Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and\nthe term's fee would have to be paid in any case.\n\n\"Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?\" said Philip, at\nthe end of a long and often bitter conversation.\n\n\"I'll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at somebody\nelse's beck and call.\"\n\n\"Philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like that,\" said Mrs. Carey\ngently.\n\n\"But don't you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so much a\nhead for every chap in the school.\"\n\n\"Why don't you want to go to Oxford?\"\n\n\"What's the good if I'm not going into the Church?\"\n\n\"You can't go into the Church: you're in the Church already,\" said the\nVicar.\n\n\"Ordained then,\" replied Philip impatiently.\n\n\"What are you going to be, Philip?\" asked Mrs. Carey.\n\n\"I don't know. I've not made up my mind. But whatever I am, it'll be\nuseful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more out of a year in\nGermany than by staying on at that hole.\"\n\nHe would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than a\ncontinuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be his own\nmaster. Besides he would be known to a certain extent among old\nschoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. He felt that his\nlife at school had been a failure. He wanted to start fresh.\n\nIt happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with certain ideas\nwhich had been of late discussed at Blackstable. Sometimes friends came to\nstay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and the\nvisitors spending August by the sea had their own way of looking at\nthings. The Vicar had heard that there were people who did not think the\nold-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and\nmodern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in his\nown youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been\nsent to Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a\nprecedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to look\nupon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of innumerable\nconversations was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for another\nterm, and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was not\ndissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke to\nhim.\n\n\"I've had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to Germany,\nand he asks me what I think about it.\"\n\nPhilip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going back on\nhis word.\n\n\"I thought it was settled, sir,\" he said.\n\n\"Far from it. I've written to say I think it the greatest mistake to take\nyou away.\"\n\nPhilip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. He\ndid not measure his language. He was so angry that he could not get to\nsleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning and\nbegan brooding over the way they had treated him. He waited impatiently\nfor an answer. In two or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter\nfrom Aunt Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his\nuncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. He\nmust know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were so\nmuch older than he that they must be better judges of what was good for\nhim. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that statement so often, and\nhe could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he\ndid, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gave\nthem greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information that Mr. Carey\nhad withdrawn the notice he had given.\n\nPhilip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had them on\nTuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons they had to go to a\nservice in the Cathedral. He stopped behind when the rest of the Sixth\nwent out.\n\n\"May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" said the headmaster briefly.\n\n\"I wanted to see my uncle about something very important.\"\n\n\"Didn't you hear me say no?\"\n\nPhilip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with humiliation,\nthe humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal.\nHe hated the headmaster now. Philip writhed under that despotism which\nnever vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to\ncare what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back\nways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. He\nwalked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in the\ndining-room.\n\n\"Hulloa, where have you sprung from?\" said the Vicar.\n\nIt was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked a little\nuneasy.\n\n\"I thought I'd come and see you about my leaving. I want to know what you\nmean by promising me one thing when I was here, and doing something\ndifferent a week after.\"\n\nHe was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up his\nmind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, he\nforced himself to say them.\n\n\"Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?\"\n\n\"No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and tell him\nI've been here you can get me into a really fine old row.\"\n\nMrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to scenes and\nthey agitated her extremely.\n\n\"It would serve you right if I told him,\" said Mr. Carey.\n\n\"If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to Perkins as\nyou did you're quite capable of it.\"\n\nIt was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar exactly\nthe opportunity he wanted.\n\n\"I'm not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me,\" he\nsaid with dignity.\n\nHe got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. Philip heard\nhim shut the door and lock it.\n\n\"Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied down like\nthis.\"\n\nAunt Louisa began to cry quietly.\n\n\"Oh, Philip, you oughtn't to have spoken to your uncle like that. Do\nplease go and tell him you're sorry.\"\n\n\"I'm not in the least sorry. He's taking a mean advantage. Of course it's\njust waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? It's\nnot his money. It was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people who\nknow nothing about things.\"\n\n\"Philip.\"\n\nPhilip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. It\nwas heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter things he was saying.\n\n\"Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying to do our\nbest for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn't as if we'd\nhad any children of our own: that's why we consulted Mr. Perkins.\" Her\nvoice broke. \"I've tried to be like a mother to you. I've loved you as if\nyou were my own son.\"\n\nShe was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her\nold-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly in\nhis throat and his eyes filled with tears.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" he said. \"I didn't mean to be beastly.\"\n\nHe knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet,\nwithered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden\nthe pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before to\nsuch a display of emotion.\n\n\"I know I've not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn't\nknow how. It's been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you\nto have no mother.\"\n\nPhilip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of\nconsoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then the\nclock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that\nwould get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in the\ncorner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He was\nangry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowed\nhimself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and\nthe tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations\nbetween the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr.\nPerkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it to\nPhilip. It ran:\n\n\nDear Mr. Perkins,\n\nForgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and I\nhave been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and his\nAunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to do\nas we are not his parents. He does not seem to think he is doing very well\nand he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much\nobliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same\nmind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally\nintended.\n\nYours very truly,\n  William Carey.\n\n\nPhilip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph.\nHe had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained a\nvictory over the wills of others.\n\n\"It's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he\nchanges his mind the next letter he gets from you,\" said the headmaster\nirritably.\n\nPhilip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not\nprevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into a\nlittle laugh.\n\n\"You've rather scored, haven't you?\" he said.\n\nThen Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation.\n\n\"Is it true that you're very anxious to leave?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Are you unhappy here?\"\n\nPhilip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depths\nof his feelings.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, sir.\"\n\nMr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at him\nthoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to himself.\n\n\"Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, and\nwhatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn't time to\nbother about anything but the average.\" Then suddenly he addressed himself\nto Philip: \"Look here, I've got a suggestion to make to you. It's getting\non towards the end of the term now. Another term won't kill you, and if\nyou want to go to Germany you'd better go after Easter than after\nChristmas. It'll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If at\nthe end of the next term you still want to go I'll make no objection. What\nd'you say to that?\"\n\n\"Thank you very much, sir.\"\n\nPhilip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not\nmind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew that\nbefore Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced within\nhim. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standing\naccording to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled with\nsatisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. It\nmade him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested on\nRose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite an\nidea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read the\nlesson that evening, and he read it very well. Philip smiled when he\nthought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter in\nsix months whether Rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would the\nimportance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip\nlooked at the masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of\napoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew now\nwhat a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was something of\na man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in which\nthey had held him. In six months they would not matter either. Their\npraise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at\ntheir censure.\n\nPhilip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and\nshyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and then,\nthough he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to be\nhallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more lightly. All\nsorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another so\nfuriously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their going\nfilled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, and\nduring the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his long\nneglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in the\nactivity of his intellect. He did very well in the examinations that\nclosed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he was talking to him\nabout an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said:\n\n\"So you've made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have\nyou?\"\n\nHe smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave an\nembarrassed smile.\n\nThe half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizes\nwhich were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look upon\nPhilip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with some\nuneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and so was in no\nsense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He knew that Rose\nflattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays in\nFrance; and he expected to get the Dean's Prize for English essay; Philip\ngot a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw how\nmuch better Philip was doing in these subjects than himself. Another\nfellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he got one of the\nscholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked Philip if he was\ngoing in for them.\n\n\"Have you any objection?\" asked Philip.\n\nIt entertained him to think that he held someone else's future in his\nhand. There was something romantic in getting these various rewards\nactually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because he\ndisdained them. At last the breaking-up day came, and he went to Mr.\nPerkins to bid him good-bye.\n\n\"You don't mean to say you really want to leave?\"\n\n Philip's face fell at the headmaster's evident surprise.\n\n\"You said you wouldn't put any objection in the way, sir,\" he answered.\n\n\"I thought it was only a whim that I'd better humour. I know you're\nobstinate and headstrong. What on earth d'you want to leave for now?\nYou've only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalen\nscholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes we've got to give.\"\n\nPhilip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but he\nhad the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it.\n\n\"You'll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn't decide at once\nwhat you're going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how delightful\nthe life is up there for anyone who has brains.\"\n\n\"I've made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?\" asked Mr.\nPerkins, with his quizzical smile. \"I shall be very sorry to lose you. In\nschools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever\nboy who's idle, but when the clever boy works--why then, he does what\nyou've done this term.\"\n\nPhilip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had ever\ntold him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip's shoulder.\n\n\"You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull\nwork, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who\ncomes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you've got the\nwords out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thing\nin the world.\" Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him\nthat it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He was\ntouched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up his\nschool-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash there appeared\nbefore him the life which he had heard described from boys who came back\nto play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University read out in\none of the studies. But he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his\nown eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the\nheadmaster's ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrender\nof all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to take\nthem, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only required a little\nmore persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and Philip would\nhave done anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of\nhis conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen.\n\n\"I think I'd rather go, sir,\" he said.\n\nMr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence,\ngrew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. He\nhad a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy who\nseemed to him insanely obstinate.\n\n\"Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep my\npromise. When do you go to Germany?\"\n\nPhilip's heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did not know\nwhether he had not rather lost it.\n\n\"At the beginning of May, sir,\" he answered.\n\n\"Well, you must come and see us when you get back.\"\n\nHe held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip would\nhave changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as settled.\nPhilip walked out of the house. His school-days were over, and he was\nfree; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at that\nmoment was not there. He walked round the precincts slowly, and a profound\ndepression seized him. He wished now that he had not been foolish. He did\nnot want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go to the\nheadmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a humiliation he could\nnever put upon himself. He wondered whether he had done right. He was\ndissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances. He asked himself\ndully whether whenever you got your way you wished afterwards that you\nhadn't.\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n\nPhilip's uncle had an old friend, called Miss Wilkinson, who lived in\nBerlin. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and it was with her father,\nthe rector of a village in Lincolnshire, that Mr. Carey had spent his last\ncuracy; on his death, forced to earn her living, she had taken various\nsituations as a governess in France and Germany. She had kept up a\ncorrespondence with Mrs. Carey, and two or three times had spent her\nholidays at Blackstable Vicarage, paying as was usual with the Careys'\nunfrequent guests a small sum for her keep. When it became clear that it\nwas less trouble to yield to Philip's wishes than to resist them, Mrs.\nCarey wrote to ask her for advice. Miss Wilkinson recommended Heidelberg\nas an excellent place to learn German in and the house of Frau Professor\nErlin as a comfortable home. Philip might live there for thirty marks a\nweek, and the Professor himself, a teacher at the local high school, would\ninstruct him.\n\nPhilip arrived in Heidelberg one morning in May. His things were put on a\nbarrow and he followed the porter out of the station. The sky was bright\nblue, and the trees in the avenue through which they passed were thick\nwith leaves; there was something in the air fresh to Philip, and mingled\nwith the timidity he felt at entering on a new life, among strangers, was\na great exhilaration. He was a little disconsolate that no one had come to\nmeet him, and felt very shy when the porter left him at the front door of\na big white house. An untidy lad let him in and took him into a\ndrawing-room. It was filled with a large suite covered in green velvet,\nand in the middle was a round table. On this in water stood a bouquet of\nflowers tightly packed together in a paper frill like the bone of a mutton\nchop, and carefully spaced round it were books in leather bindings. There\nwas a musty smell.\n\nPresently, with an odour of cooking, the Frau Professor came in, a short,\nvery stout woman with tightly dressed hair and a red face; she had little\neyes, sparkling like beads, and an effusive manner. She took both Philip's\nhands and asked him about Miss Wilkinson, who had twice spent a few weeks\nwith her. She spoke in German and in broken English. Philip could not make\nher understand that he did not know Miss Wilkinson. Then her two daughters\nappeared. They seemed hardly young to Philip, but perhaps they were not\nmore than twenty-five: the elder, Thekla, was as short as her mother, with\nthe same, rather shifty air, but with a pretty face and abundant dark\nhair; Anna, her younger sister, was tall and plain, but since she had a\npleasant smile Philip immediately preferred her. After a few minutes of\npolite conversation the Frau Professor took Philip to his room and left\nhim. It was in a turret, looking over the tops of the trees in the Anlage;\nand the bed was in an alcove, so that when you sat at the desk it had not\nthe look of a bed-room at all. Philip unpacked his things and set out all\nhis books. He was his own master at last.\n\nA bell summoned him to dinner at one o'clock, and he found the Frau\nProfessor's guests assembled in the drawing-room. He was introduced to her\nhusband, a tall man of middle age with a large fair head, turning now to\ngray, and mild blue eyes. He spoke to Philip in correct, rather archaic\nEnglish, having learned it from a study of the English classics, not from\nconversation; and it was odd to hear him use words colloquially which\nPhilip had only met in the plays of Shakespeare. Frau Professor Erlin\ncalled her establishment a family and not a pension; but it would have\nrequired the subtlety of a metaphysician to find out exactly where the\ndifference lay. When they sat down to dinner in a long dark apartment that\nled out of the drawing-room, Philip, feeling very shy, saw that there were\nsixteen people. The Frau Professor sat at one end and carved. The service\nwas conducted, with a great clattering of plates, by the same clumsy lout\nwho had opened the door for him; and though he was quick it happened that\nthe first persons to be served had finished before the last had received\ntheir appointed portions. The Frau Professor insisted that nothing but\nGerman should be spoken, so that Philip, even if his bashfulness had\npermitted him to be talkative, was forced to hold his tongue. He looked at\nthe people among whom he was to live. By the Frau Professor sat several\nold ladies, but Philip did not give them much of his attention. There were\ntwo young girls, both fair and one of them very pretty, whom Philip heard\naddressed as Fraulein Hedwig and Fraulein Cacilie. Fraulein Cacilie had a\nlong pig-tail hanging down her back. They sat side by side and chattered\nto one another, with smothered laughter: now and then they glanced at\nPhilip and one of them said something in an undertone; they both giggled,\nand Philip blushed awkwardly, feeling that they were making fun of him.\nNear them sat a Chinaman, with a yellow face and an expansive smile, who\nwas studying Western conditions at the University. He spoke so quickly,\nwith a queer accent, that the girls could not always understand him, and\nthen they burst out laughing. He laughed too, good-humouredly, and his\nalmond eyes almost closed as he did so. There were two or three American\nmen, in black coats, rather yellow and dry of skin: they were theological\nstudents; Philip heard the twang of their New England accent through their\nbad German, and he glanced at them with suspicion; for he had been taught\nto look upon Americans as wild and desperate barbarians.\n\nAfterwards, when they had sat for a little on the stiff green velvet\nchairs of the drawing-room, Fraulein Anna asked Philip if he would like to\ngo for a walk with them.\n\nPhilip accepted the invitation. They were quite a party. There were the\ntwo daughters of the Frau Professor, the two other girls, one of the\nAmerican students, and Philip. Philip walked by the side of Anna and\nFraulein Hedwig. He was a little fluttered. He had never known any girls.\nAt Blackstable there were only the farmers' daughters and the girls of the\nlocal tradesmen. He knew them by name and by sight, but he was timid, and\nhe thought they laughed at his deformity. He accepted willingly the\ndifference which the Vicar and Mrs. Carey put between their own exalted\nrank and that of the farmers. The doctor had two daughters, but they were\nboth much older than Philip and had been married to successive assistants\nwhile Philip was still a small boy. At school there had been two or three\ngirls of more boldness than modesty whom some of the boys knew; and\ndesperate stories, due in all probability to the masculine imagination,\nwere told of intrigues with them; but Philip had always concealed under a\nlofty contempt the terror with which they filled him. His imagination and\nthe books he had read had inspired in him a desire for the Byronic\nattitude; and he was torn between a morbid self-consciousness and a\nconviction that he owed it to himself to be gallant. He felt now that he\nshould be bright and amusing, but his brain seemed empty and he could not\nfor the life of him think of anything to say. Fraulein Anna, the Frau\nProfessor's daughter, addressed herself to him frequently from a sense of\nduty, but the other said little: she looked at him now and then with\nsparkling eyes, and sometimes to his confusion laughed outright. Philip\nfelt that she thought him perfectly ridiculous. They walked along the side\nof a hill among pine-trees, and their pleasant odour caused Philip a keen\ndelight. The day was warm and cloudless. At last they came to an eminence\nfrom which they saw the valley of the Rhine spread out before them under\nthe sun. It was a vast stretch of country, sparkling with golden light,\nwith cities in the distance; and through it meandered the silver ribband\nof the river. Wide spaces are rare in the corner of Kent which Philip\nknew, the sea offers the only broad horizon, and the immense distance he\nsaw now gave him a peculiar, an indescribable thrill. He felt suddenly\nelated. Though he did not know it, it was the first time that he had\nexperienced, quite undiluted with foreign emotions, the sense of beauty.\nThey sat on a bench, the three of them, for the others had gone on, and\nwhile the girls talked in rapid German, Philip, indifferent to their\nproximity, feasted his eyes.\n\n\"By Jove, I am happy,\" he said to himself unconsciously.\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n\nPhilip thought occasionally of the King's School at Tercanbury, and\nlaughed to himself as he remembered what at some particular moment of the\nday they were doing. Now and then he dreamed that he was there still, and\nit gave him an extraordinary satisfaction, on awaking, to realise that he\nwas in his little room in the turret. From his bed he could see the great\ncumulus clouds that hung in the blue sky. He revelled in his freedom. He\ncould go to bed when he chose and get up when the fancy took him. There\nwas no one to order him about. It struck him that he need not tell any\nmore lies.\n\nIt had been arranged that Professor Erlin should teach him Latin and\nGerman; a Frenchman came every day to give him lessons in French; and the\nFrau Professor had recommended for mathematics an Englishman who was\ntaking a philological degree at the university. This was a man named\nWharton. Philip went to him every morning. He lived in one room on the top\nfloor of a shabby house. It was dirty and untidy, and it was filled with\na pungent odour made up of many different stinks. He was generally in bed\nwhen Philip arrived at ten o'clock, and he jumped out, put on a filthy\ndressing-gown and felt slippers, and, while he gave instruction, ate his\nsimple breakfast. He was a short man, stout from excessive beer drinking,\nwith a heavy moustache and long, unkempt hair. He had been in Germany for\nfive years and was become very Teutonic. He spoke with scorn of Cambridge\nwhere he had taken his degree and with horror of the life which awaited\nhim when, having taken his doctorate in Heidelberg, he must return to\nEngland and a pedagogic career. He adored the life of the German\nuniversity with its happy freedom and its jolly companionships. He was a\nmember of a Burschenschaft, and promised to take Philip to a Kneipe. He\nwas very poor and made no secret that the lessons he was giving Philip\nmeant the difference between meat for his dinner and bread and cheese.\nSometimes after a heavy night he had such a headache that he could not\ndrink his coffee, and he gave his lesson with heaviness of spirit. For\nthese occasions he kept a few bottles of beer under the bed, and one of\nthese and a pipe would help him to bear the burden of life.\n\n\"A hair of the dog that bit him,\" he would say as he poured out the beer,\ncarefully so that the foam should not make him wait too long to drink.\n\nThen he would talk to Philip of the university, the quarrels between rival\ncorps, the duels, and the merits of this and that professor. Philip learnt\nmore of life from him than of mathematics. Sometimes Wharton would sit\nback with a laugh and say:\n\n\"Look here, we've not done anything today. You needn't pay me for the\nlesson.\"\n\n\"Oh, it doesn't matter,\" said Philip.\n\nThis was something new and very interesting, and he felt that it was of\ngreater import than trigonometry, which he never could understand. It was\nlike a window on life that he had a chance of peeping through, and he\nlooked with a wildly beating heart.\n\n\"No, you can keep your dirty money,\" said Wharton.\n\n\"But how about your dinner?\" said Philip, with a smile, for he knew\nexactly how his master's finances stood.\n\nWharton had even asked him to pay him the two shillings which the lesson\ncost once a week rather than once a month, since it made things less\ncomplicated.\n\n\"Oh, never mind my dinner. It won't be the first time I've dined off a\nbottle of beer, and my mind's never clearer than when I do.\"\n\nHe dived under the bed (the sheets were gray with want of washing), and\nfished out another bottle. Philip, who was young and did not know the good\nthings of life, refused to share it with him, so he drank alone.\n\n\"How long are you going to stay here?\" asked Wharton.\n\nBoth he and Philip had given up with relief the pretence of mathematics.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. I suppose about a year. Then my people want me to go to\nOxford.\"\n\nWharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. It was a new\nexperience for Philip to learn that there were persons who did not look\nupon that seat of learning with awe.\n\n\"What d'you want to go there for? You'll only be a glorified schoolboy.\nWhy don't you matriculate here? A year's no good. Spend five years here.\nYou know, there are two good things in life, freedom of thought and\nfreedom of action. In France you get freedom of action: you can do what\nyou like and nobody bothers, but you must think like everybody else. In\nGermany you must do what everybody else does, but you may think as you\nchoose. They're both very good things. I personally prefer freedom of\nthought. But in England you get neither: you're ground down by convention.\nYou can't think as you like and you can't act as you like. That's because\nit's a democratic nation. I expect America's worse.\"\n\nHe leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a ricketty\nleg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical flourish was interrupted\nby a sudden fall to the floor.\n\n\"I ought to go back to England this year, but if I can scrape together\nenough to keep body and soul on speaking terms I shall stay another twelve\nmonths. But then I shall have to go. And I must leave all this\"--he waved\nhis arm round the dirty garret, with its unmade bed, the clothes lying on\nthe floor, a row of empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound,\nragged books in every corner--\"for some provincial university where I\nshall try and get a chair of philology. And I shall play tennis and go to\ntea-parties.\" He interrupted himself and gave Philip, very neatly dressed,\nwith a clean collar on and his hair well-brushed, a quizzical look. \"And,\nmy God! I shall have to wash.\"\n\nPhilip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable reproach; for\nof late he had begun to pay some attention to his toilet, and he had come\nout from England with a pretty selection of ties.\n\nThe summer came upon the country like a conqueror. Each day was beautiful.\nThe sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves like a spur. The\ngreen of the trees in the Anlage was violent and crude; and the houses,\nwhen the sun caught them, had a dazzling white which stimulated till it\nhurt. Sometimes on his way back from Wharton Philip would sit in the shade\non one of the benches in the Anlage, enjoying the coolness and watching\nthe patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves, made on\nthe ground. His soul danced with delight as gaily as the sunbeams. He\nrevelled in those moments of idleness stolen from his work. Sometimes he\nsauntered through the streets of the old town. He looked with awe at the\nstudents of the corps, their cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about in\ntheir coloured caps. In the afternoons he wandered about the hills with\nthe girls in the Frau Professor's house, and sometimes they went up the\nriver and had tea in a leafy beer-garden. In the evenings they walked\nround and round the Stadtgarten, listening to the band.\n\nPhilip soon learned the various interests of the household. Fraulein\nThekla, the professor's elder daughter, was engaged to a man in England\nwho had spent twelve months in the house to learn German, and their\nmarriage was to take place at the end of the year. But the young man wrote\nthat his father, an india-rubber merchant who lived in Slough, did not\napprove of the union, and Fraulein Thekla was often in tears. Sometimes\nshe and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined mouths,\nlooking over the letters of the reluctant lover. Thekla painted in water\ncolour, and occasionally she and Philip, with another of the girls to keep\nthem company, would go out and paint little pictures. The pretty Fraulein\nHedwig had amorous troubles too. She was the daughter of a merchant in\nBerlin and a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a von if you\nplease: but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her condition,\nand she had been sent to Heidelberg to forget him. She could never, never\ndo this, and corresponded with him continually, and he was making every\neffort to induce an exasperating father to change his mind. She told all\nthis to Philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him the\nphotograph of the gay lieutenant. Philip liked her best of all the girls\nat the Frau Professor's, and on their walks always tried to get by her\nside. He blushed a great deal when the others chaffed him for his obvious\npreference. He made the first declaration in his life to Fraulein Hedwig,\nbut unfortunately it was an accident, and it happened in this manner. In\nthe evenings when they did not go out, the young women sang little songs\nin the green velvet drawing-room, while Fraulein Anna, who always made\nherself useful, industriously accompanied. Fraulein Hedwig's favourite\nsong was called Ich liebe dich, I love you; and one evening after she\nhad sung this, when Philip was standing with her on the balcony, looking\nat the stars, it occurred to him to make some remark about it. He began:\n\n\"Ich liebe dich.\"\n\nHis German was halting, and he looked about for the word he wanted. The\npause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on Fraulein Hedwig said:\n\n\"Ach, Herr Carey, Sie mussen mir nicht du sagen--you mustn't talk to me\nin the second person singular.\"\n\nPhilip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have dared to do\nanything so familiar, and he could think of nothing on earth to say. It\nwould be ungallant to explain that he was not making an observation, but\nmerely mentioning the title of a song.\n\n\"Entschuldigen Sie,\" he said. \"I beg your pardon.\"\n\n\"It does not matter,\" she whispered.\n\nShe smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it, then turned\nback into the drawing-room.\n\nNext day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her, and in his\nshyness did all that was possible to avoid her. When he was asked to go\nfor the usual walk he refused because, he said, he had work to do. But\nFraulein Hedwig seized an opportunity to speak to him alone.\n\n\"Why are you behaving in this way?\" she said kindly. \"You know, I'm not\nangry with you for what you said last night. You can't help it if you love\nme. I'm flattered. But although I'm not exactly engaged to Hermann I can\nnever love anyone else, and I look upon myself as his bride.\"\n\nPhilip blushed again, but he put on quite the expression of a rejected\nlover.\n\n\"I hope you'll be very happy,\" he said.\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n\nProfessor Erlin gave Philip a lesson every day. He made out a list of\nbooks which Philip was to read till he was ready for the final achievement\nof Faust, and meanwhile, ingeniously enough, started him on a German\ntranslation of one of the plays by Shakespeare which Philip had studied at\nschool. It was the period in Germany of Goethe's highest fame.\nNotwithstanding his rather condescending attitude towards patriotism he\nhad been adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of seventy\nto be one of the most significant glories of national unity. The\nenthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the Walpurgisnacht to hear the\nrattle of artillery at Gravelotte. But one mark of a writer's greatness is\nthat different minds can find in him different inspirations; and Professor\nErlin, who hated the Prussians, gave his enthusiastic admiration to Goethe\nbecause his works, Olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge for a sane\nmind against the onslaughts of the present generation. There was a\ndramatist whose name of late had been much heard at Heidelberg, and the\nwinter before one of his plays had been given at the theatre amid the\ncheers of adherents and the hisses of decent people. Philip heard\ndiscussions about it at the Frau Professor's long table, and at these\nProfessor Erlin lost his wonted calm: he beat the table with his fist, and\ndrowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. It was\nnonsense and obscene nonsense. He forced himself to sit the play out, but\nhe did not know whether he was more bored or nauseated. If that was what\nthe theatre was coming to, then it was high time the police stepped in and\nclosed the playhouses. He was no prude and could laugh as well as anyone\nat the witty immorality of a farce at the Palais Royal, but here was\nnothing but filth. With an emphatic gesture he held his nose and whistled\nthrough his teeth. It was the ruin of the family, the uprooting of morals,\nthe destruction of Germany.\n\n\"Aber, Adolf,\" said the Frau Professor from the other end of the table.\n\"Calm yourself.\"\n\nHe shook his fist at her. He was the mildest of creatures and ventured\nupon no action of his life without consulting her.\n\n\"No, Helene, I tell you this,\" he shouted. \"I would sooner my daughters\nwere lying dead at my feet than see them listening to the garbage of that\nshameless fellow.\"\n\nThe play was The Doll's House and the author was Henrik Ibsen.\n\nProfessor Erlin classed him with Richard Wagner, but of him he spoke not\nwith anger but with good-humoured laughter. He was a charlatan but a\nsuccessful charlatan, and in that was always something for the comic\nspirit to rejoice in.\n\n\"Verruckter Kerl! A madman!\" he said.\n\nHe had seen Lohengrin and that passed muster. It was dull but no worse.\nBut Siegfried! When he mentioned it Professor Erlin leaned his head on\nhis hand and bellowed with laughter. Not a melody in it from beginning to\nend! He could imagine Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing till\nhis sides ached at the sight of all the people who were taking it\nseriously. It was the greatest hoax of the nineteenth century. He lifted\nhis glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head, and drank till the\nglass was empty. Then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said:\n\n\"I tell you young people that before the nineteenth century is out Wagner\nwill be as dead as mutton. Wagner! I would give all his works for one\nopera by Donizetti.\"\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n\nThe oddest of Philip's masters was his teacher of French. Monsieur Ducroz\nwas a citizen of Geneva. He was a tall old man, with a sallow skin and\nhollow cheeks; his gray hair was thin and long. He wore shabby black\nclothes, with holes at the elbows of his coat and frayed trousers. His\nlinen was very dirty. Philip had never seen him in a clean collar. He was\na man of few words, who gave his lesson conscientiously but without\nenthusiasm, arriving as the clock struck and leaving on the minute. His\ncharges were very small. He was taciturn, and what Philip learnt about him\nhe learnt from others: it appeared that he had fought with Garibaldi\nagainst the Pope, but had left Italy in disgust when it was clear that all\nhis efforts for freedom, by which he meant the establishment of a\nrepublic, tended to no more than an exchange of yokes; he had been\nexpelled from Geneva for it was not known what political offences. Philip\nlooked upon him with puzzled surprise; for he was very unlike his idea of\nthe revolutionary: he spoke in a low voice and was extraordinarily polite;\nhe never sat down till he was asked to; and when on rare occasions he met\nPhilip in the street took off his hat with an elaborate gesture; he never\nlaughed, he never even smiled. A more complete imagination than Philip's\nmight have pictured a youth of splendid hope, for he must have been\nentering upon manhood in 1848 when kings, remembering their brother of\nFrance, went about with an uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps that\npassion for liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before it what\nof absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the reaction from the\nrevolution of 1789, filled no breast with a hotter fire. One might fancy\nhim, passionate with theories of human equality and human rights,\ndiscussing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in Paris, flying before\nthe Austrian cavalry in Milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hoping\non and upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the word\nLiberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old, without\nmeans to keep body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick up\nfrom poor students, he found himself in that little neat town under the\nheel of a personal tyranny greater than any in Europe. Perhaps his\ntaciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which had abandoned the\ngreat dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps\nthese thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit for\nliberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that\nwhich was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited only\nwith indifference for the release of death.\n\nOne day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it was true he\nhad been with Garibaldi. The old man did not seem to attach any importance\nto the question. He answered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual.\n\n\"Oui, monsieur.\"\n\n\"They say you were in the Commune?\"\n\n\"Do they? Shall we get on with our work?\"\n\nHe held the book open and Philip, intimidated, began to translate the\npassage he had prepared.\n\nOne day Monsieur Ducroz seemed to be in great pain. He had been scarcely\nable to drag himself up the many stairs to Philip's room: and when he\narrived sat down heavily, his sallow face drawn, with beads of sweat on\nhis forehead, trying to recover himself.\n\n\"I'm afraid you're ill,\" said Philip.\n\n\"It's of no consequence.\"\n\nBut Philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour asked\nwhether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till he was better.\n\n\"No,\" said the old man, in his even low voice. \"I prefer to go on while I\nam able.\"\n\nPhilip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference to money,\nreddened.\n\n\"But it won't make any difference to you,\" he said. \"I'll pay for the\nlessons just the same. If you wouldn't mind I'd like to give you the money\nfor next week in advance.\"\n\nMonsieur Ducroz charged eighteen pence an hour. Philip took a ten-mark\npiece out of his pocket and shyly put it on the table. He could not bring\nhimself to offer it as if the old man were a beggar.\n\n\"In that case I think I won't come again till I'm better.\" He took the\ncoin and, without anything more than the elaborate bow with which he\nalways took his leave, went out.\n\n\"Bonjour, monsieur.\"\n\nPhilip was vaguely disappointed. Thinking he had done a generous thing, he\nhad expected that Monsieur Ducroz would overwhelm him with expressions of\ngratitude. He was taken aback to find that the old teacher accepted the\npresent as though it were his due. He was so young, he did not realise how\nmuch less is the sense of obligation in those who receive favours than in\nthose who grant them. Monsieur Ducroz appeared again five or six days\nlater. He tottered a little more and was very weak, but seemed to have\novercome the severity of the attack. He was no more communicative than he\nhad been before. He remained mysterious, aloof, and dirty. He made no\nreference to his illness till after the lesson: and then, just as he was\nleaving, at the door, which he held open, he paused. He hesitated, as\nthough to speak were difficult.\n\n\"If it hadn't been for the money you gave me I should have starved. It was\nall I had to live on.\"\n\nHe made his solemn, obsequious bow, and went out. Philip felt a little\nlump in his throat. He seemed to realise in a fashion the hopeless\nbitterness of the old man's struggle, and how hard life was for him when\nto himself it was so pleasant.\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n\nPhilip had spent three months in Heidelberg when one morning the Frau\nProfessor told him that an Englishman named Hayward was coming to stay in\nthe house, and the same evening at supper he saw a new face. For some days\nthe family had lived in a state of excitement. First, as the result of\nheaven knows what scheming, by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats,\nthe parents of the young Englishman to whom Fraulein Thekla was engaged\nhad invited her to visit them in England, and she had set off with an\nalbum of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle of\nletters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised himself. A week\nlater Fraulein Hedwig with radiant smiles announced that the lieutenant of\nher affections was coming to Heidelberg with his father and mother.\nExhausted by the importunity of their son and touched by the dowry which\nFraulein Hedwig's father offered, the lieutenant's parents had consented\nto pass through Heidelberg to make the young woman's acquaintance. The\ninterview was satisfactory and Fraulein Hedwig had the satisfaction of\nshowing her lover in the Stadtgarten to the whole of Frau Professor\nErlin's household. The silent old ladies who sat at the top of the table\nnear the Frau Professor were in a flutter, and when Fraulein Hedwig said\nshe was to go home at once for the formal engagement to take place, the\nFrau Professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a Maibowle.\nProfessor Erlin prided himself on his skill in preparing this mild\nintoxicant, and after supper the large bowl of hock and soda, with scented\nherbs floating in it and wild strawberries, was placed with solemnity on\nthe round table in the drawing-room. Fraulein Anna teased Philip about the\ndeparture of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and rather\nmelancholy. Fraulein Hedwig sang several songs, Fraulein Anna played the\nWedding March, and the Professor sang Die Wacht am Rhein. Amid all this\njollification Philip paid little attention to the new arrival. They had\nsat opposite one another at supper, but Philip was chattering busily with\nFraulein Hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no German, had eaten his food\nin silence. Philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had on that\naccount taken a sudden dislike to him. He was a man of twenty-six, very\nfair, with long, wavy hair through which he passed his hand frequently\nwith a careless gesture. His eyes were large and blue, but the blue was\nvery pale, and they looked rather tired already. He was clean-shaven, and\nhis mouth, notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. Fraulein Anna\ntook an interest in physiognomy, and she made Philip notice afterwards how\nfinely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the lower part of his face.\nThe head, she remarked, was the head of a thinker, but the jaw lacked\ncharacter. Fraulein Anna, foredoomed to a spinster's life, with her high\ncheek-bones and large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character.\nWhile they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others, watching\nthe noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly supercilious expression.\nHe was tall and slim. He held himself with a deliberate grace. Weeks, one\nof the American students, seeing him alone, went up and began to talk to\nhim. The pair were oddly contrasted: the American very neat in his black\ncoat and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something of\necclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the Englishman in his\nloose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of gesture.\n\nPhilip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. They found themselves\nalone on the balcony of the drawing-room before dinner. Hayward addressed\nhim.\n\n\"You're English, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Is the food always as bad it was last night?\"\n\n\"It's always about the same.\"\n\n\"Beastly, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Beastly.\"\n\nPhilip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact had eaten\nit in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment, but he did not want to\nshow himself a person of so little discrimination as to think a dinner\ngood which another thought execrable.\n\nFraulein Thekla's visit to England made it necessary for her sister to do\nmore in the house, and she could not often spare the time for long walks;\nand Fraulein Cacilie, with her long plait of fair hair and her little\nsnub-nosed face, had of late shown a certain disinclination for society.\nFraulein Hedwig was gone, and Weeks, the American who generally\naccompanied them on their rambles, had set out for a tour of South\nGermany. Philip was left a good deal to himself. Hayward sought his\nacquaintance; but Philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness or from\nsome atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he always disliked people\non first acquaintance; and it was not till he became used to them that he\ngot over his first impression. It made him difficult of access. He\nreceived Hayward's advances very shyly, and when Hayward asked him one day\nto go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think of a civil\nexcuse. He made his usual apology, angry with himself for the flushing\ncheeks he could not control, and trying to carry it off with a laugh.\n\n\"I'm afraid I can't walk very fast.\"\n\n\"Good heavens, I don't walk for a wager. I prefer to stroll. Don't you\nremember the chapter in Marius where Pater talks of the gentle exercise of\nwalking as the best incentive to conversation?\"\n\nPhilip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever things to\nsay, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say them had passed; but\nHayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than Philip might have\nthought he liked to hear himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressed\nPhilip. He could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who\nfaintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as almost\nsacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuous\nword pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms;\nand Philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead the\nother fetish of culture.\n\nThey wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the\ntown. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with a\ncomfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale\nblue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a\npleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed the\nheart. Hayward talked of Richard Feverel and Madame Bovary, of\nVerlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald's\ntranslation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward\nrepeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and\nthat of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time they\nreached home Philip's distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiastic\nadmiration.\n\nThey made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philip\nlearned presently something of Hayward's circumstances. He was the son of\na country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three\nhundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he\nwent to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to\nexpress his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared\nhimself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectual\ncircles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped\nnose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley's treatment of\nHarriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were\nreproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli);\nand he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character.\nHis friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he\nlistened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. In\ncourse of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came under\nthe influence of Newman's Apologia; the picturesqueness of the Roman\nCatholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the\nfear of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read\nMacaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' When he only got a pass\ndegree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and\ndelicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made one\nfeel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of\nthe vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was\nasking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he\nnoticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous;\nso he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel at\nKing's. But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had given\nbetter dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had\nbeen often memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram:\n\n\"They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead.\"\n\nAnd now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about the\nexaminer and his boots, he laughed.\n\n\"Of course it was folly,\" he said, \"but it was a folly in which there was\nsomething fine.\"\n\nPhilip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent.\n\nThen Hayward went to London to read for the Bar. He had charming rooms in\nClement's Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look like\nhis old rooms at the Hall. He had ambitions that were vaguely political,\nhe described himself as a Whig, and he was put up for a club which was of\nLiberal but gentlemanly flavour. His idea was to practise at the Bar (he\nchose the Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant\nconstituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out;\nmeanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with a\nsmall number of charming people who admired the things that he admired. He\njoined a dining-club of which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and The\nBeautiful. He formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older\nthan himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every afternoon\nhe drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of George\nMeredith and Walter Pater. It was notorious that any fool could pass the\nexaminations of the Bar Council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatory\nfashion. When he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a\npersonal affront. At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told him\nthat her husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man,\nthough worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not\nunderstand a young man's frequent visits. Hayward felt that life was full\nof ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again the\ncynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kicking\naway the ball which lay at his feet. He was also a good deal in debt: it\nwas difficult to live in London like a gentleman on three hundred a year;\nand his heart yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had so\nmagically described. He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle of\nthe Bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your name\non a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility. He\nfelt himself a poet. He disposed of his rooms in Clement's Inn and went to\nItaly. He had spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now was\npassing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might read Goethe\nin the original.\n\nHayward had one gift which was very precious. He had a real feeling for\nliterature, and he could impart his own passion with an admirable fluency.\nHe could throw himself into sympathy with a writer and see all that was\nbest in him, and then he could talk about him with understanding. Philip\nhad read a great deal, but he had read without discrimination everything\nthat he happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to meet\nsomeone who could guide his taste. He borrowed books from the small\nlending library which the town possessed and began reading all the\nwonderful things that Hayward spoke of. He did not read always with\nenjoyment but invariably with perseverance. He was eager for\nself-improvement. He felt himself very ignorant and very humble. By the\nend of August, when Weeks returned from South Germany, Philip was\ncompletely under Hayward's influence. Hayward did not like Weeks. He\ndeplored the American's black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spoke\nwith a scornful shrug of his New England conscience. Philip listened\ncomplacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way to be kind\nto him, but when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about Hayward\nhe lost his temper.\n\n\"Your new friend looks like a poet,\" said Weeks, with a thin smile on his\ncareworn, bitter mouth.\n\n\"He is a poet.\"\n\n\"Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pretty fair specimen\nof a waster.\"\n\n\"Well, we're not in America,\" said Philip frigidly.\n\n\"How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in pensions and\nwrite poetry.\"\n\n\"You don't know him,\" said Philip hotly.\n\n\"Oh yes, I do: I've met a hundred and forty-seven of him.\"\n\nWeeks' eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand American humour,\npursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middle\nage, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long,\nthin body and the scholar's stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had\npale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose,\nand the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look.\nHe was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion;\nbut he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the\nserious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He was\nstudying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theological students of his\nown nationality looked upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox,\nwhich frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval.\n\n\"How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?\" asked Philip\nseriously.\n\n\"I've met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I've met him in pensions\nin Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi. He\nstands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all\nthe benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too\nmuch wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He always\nadmires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days\nhe's going to write a great work. Think of it, there are a hundred and\nforty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and\nforty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those\nhundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet the\nworld goes on.\"\n\nWeeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of\nhis long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American was\nmaking fun of him.\n\n\"You do talk rot,\" he said crossly.\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n\nWeeks had two little rooms at the back of Frau Erlin's house, and one of\nthem, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough for him to invite\npeople to sit in. After supper, urged perhaps by the impish humour which\nwas the despair of his friends in Cambridge, Mass., he often asked Philip\nand Hayward to come in for a chat. He received them with elaborate\ncourtesy and insisted on their sitting in the only two comfortable chairs\nin the room. Though he did not drink himself, with a politeness of which\nPhilip recognised the irony, he put a couple of bottles of beer at\nHayward's elbow, and he insisted on lighting matches whenever in the heat\nof argument Hayward's pipe went out. At the beginning of their\nacquaintance Hayward, as a member of so celebrated a university, had\nadopted a patronising attitude towards Weeks, who was a graduate of\nHarvard; and when by chance the conversation turned upon the Greek\ntragedians, a subject upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he\nhad assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than\nto exchange ideas. Weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till\nHayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so\ninnocent in appearance that Hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they\nled him, answered blandly; Weeks made a courteous objection, then a\ncorrection of fact, after that a quotation from some little known Latin\ncommentator, then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was\ndisclosed that he was a scholar. With smiling ease, apologetically, Weeks\ntore to pieces all that Hayward had said; with elaborate civility he\ndisplayed the superficiality of his attainments. He mocked him with gentle\nirony. Philip could not help seeing that Hayward looked a perfect fool,\nand Hayward had not the sense to hold his tongue; in his irritation, his\nself-assurance undaunted, he attempted to argue: he made wild statements\nand Weeks amicably corrected them; he reasoned falsely and Weeks proved\nthat he was absurd: Weeks confessed that he had taught Greek Literature at\nHarvard. Hayward gave a laugh of scorn.\n\n\"I might have known it. Of course you read Greek like a schoolmaster,\" he\nsaid. \"I read it like a poet.\"\n\n\"And do you find it more poetic when you don't quite know what it means?\nI thought it was only in revealed religion that a mistranslation improved\nthe sense.\"\n\nAt last, having finished the beer, Hayward left Weeks' room hot and\ndishevelled; with an angry gesture he said to Philip:\n\n\"Of course the man's a pedant. He has no real feeling for beauty. Accuracy\nis the virtue of clerks. It's the spirit of the Greeks that we aim at.\nWeeks is like that fellow who went to hear Rubenstein and complained that\nhe played false notes. False notes! What did they matter when he played\ndivinely?\"\n\nPhilip, not knowing how many incompetent people have found solace in these\nfalse notes, was much impressed.\n\nHayward could never resist the opportunity which Weeks offered him of\nregaining ground lost on a previous occasion, and Weeks was able with the\ngreatest ease to draw him into a discussion. Though he could not help\nseeing how small his attainments were beside the American's, his British\npertinacity, his wounded vanity (perhaps they are the same thing), would\nnot allow him to give up the struggle. Hayward seemed to take a delight in\ndisplaying his ignorance, self-satisfaction, and wrongheadedness. Whenever\nHayward said something which was illogical, Weeks in a few words would\nshow the falseness of his reasoning, pause for a moment to enjoy his\ntriumph, and then hurry on to another subject as though Christian charity\nimpelled him to spare the vanquished foe. Philip tried sometimes to put in\nsomething to help his friend, and Weeks gently crushed him, but so kindly,\ndifferently from the way in which he answered Hayward, that even Philip,\noutrageously sensitive, could not feel hurt. Now and then, losing his calm\nas he felt himself more and more foolish, Hayward became abusive, and only\nthe American's smiling politeness prevented the argument from degenerating\ninto a quarrel. On these occasions when Hayward left Weeks' room he\nmuttered angrily:\n\n\"Damned Yankee!\"\n\nThat settled it. It was a perfect answer to an argument which had seemed\nunanswerable.\n\nThough they began by discussing all manner of subjects in Weeks' little\nroom eventually the conversation always turned to religion: the\ntheological student took a professional interest in it, and Hayward\nwelcomed a subject in which hard facts need not disconcert him; when\nfeeling is the gauge you can snap your angers at logic, and when your\nlogic is weak that is very agreeable. Hayward found it difficult to\nexplain his beliefs to Philip without a great flow of words; but it was\nclear (and this fell in with Philip's idea of the natural order of\nthings), that he had been brought up in the church by law established.\nThough he had now given up all idea of becoming a Roman Catholic, he still\nlooked upon that communion with sympathy. He had much to say in its\npraise, and he compared favourably its gorgeous ceremonies with the simple\nservices of the Church of England. He gave Philip Newman's Apologia to\nread, and Philip, finding it very dull, nevertheless read it to the end.\n\n\"Read it for its style, not for its matter,\" said Hayward.\n\nHe talked enthusiastically of the music at the Oratory, and said charming\nthings about the connection between incense and the devotional spirit.\nWeeks listened to him with his frigid smile.\n\n\"You think it proves the truth of Roman Catholicism that John Henry Newman\nwrote good English and that Cardinal Manning has a picturesque\nappearance?\"\n\nHayward hinted that he had gone through much trouble with his soul. For a\nyear he had swum in a sea of darkness. He passed his fingers through his\nfair, waving hair and told them that he would not for five hundred pounds\nendure again those agonies of mind. Fortunately he had reached calm waters\nat last.\n\n\"But what do you believe?\" asked Philip, who was never satisfied with\nvague statements.\n\n\"I believe in the Whole, the Good, and the Beautiful.\"\n\nHayward with his loose large limbs and the fine carriage of his head\nlooked very handsome when he said this, and he said it with an air.\n\n\"Is that how you would describe your religion in a census paper?\" asked\nWeeks, in mild tones.\n\n\"I hate the rigid definition: it's so ugly, so obvious. If you like I will\nsay that I believe in the church of the Duke of Wellington and Mr.\nGladstone.\"\n\n\"That's the Church of England,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Oh wise young man!\" retorted Hayward, with a smile which made Philip\nblush, for he felt that in putting into plain words what the other had\nexpressed in a paraphrase, he had been guilty of vulgarity. \"I belong to\nthe Church of England. But I love the gold and the silk which clothe the\npriest of Rome, and his celibacy, and the confessional, and purgatory: and\nin the darkness of an Italian cathedral, incense-laden and mysterious, I\nbelieve with all my heart in the miracle of the Mass. In Venice I have\nseen a fisherwoman come in, barefoot, throw down her basket of fish by her\nside, fall on her knees, and pray to the Madonna; and that I felt was the\nreal faith, and I prayed and believed with her. But I believe also in\nAphrodite and Apollo and the Great God Pan.\"\n\nHe had a charming voice, and he chose his words as he spoke; he uttered\nthem almost rhythmically. He would have gone on, but Weeks opened a second\nbottle of beer.\n\n\"Let me give you something to drink.\"\n\nHayward turned to Philip with the slightly condescending gesture which so\nimpressed the youth.\n\n\"Now are you satisfied?\" he asked.\n\nPhilip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was.\n\n\"I'm disappointed that you didn't add a little Buddhism,\" said Weeks. \"And\nI confess I have a sort of sympathy for Mahomet; I regret that you should\nhave left him out in the cold.\"\n\nHayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with himself that evening,\nand the ring of his sentences still sounded pleasant in his ears. He\nemptied his glass.\n\n\"I didn't expect you to understand me,\" he answered. \"With your cold\nAmerican intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson\nand all that sort of thing. But what is criticism? Criticism is purely\ndestructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You are a\npedant, my dear fellow. The important thing is to construct: I am\nconstructive; I am a poet.\"\n\nWeeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same time to be quite\ngrave and yet to be smiling brightly.\n\n\"I think, if you don't mind my saying so, you're a little drunk.\"\n\n\"Nothing to speak of,\" answered Hayward cheerfully. \"And not enough for me\nto be unable to overwhelm you in argument. But come, I have unbosomed my\nsoul; now tell us what your religion is.\"\n\nWeeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a sparrow on a\nperch.\n\n\"I've been trying to find that out for years. I think I'm a Unitarian.\"\n\n\"But that's a dissenter,\" said Philip.\n\nHe could not imagine why they both burst into laughter, Hayward\nuproariously, and Weeks with a funny chuckle.\n\n\"And in England dissenters aren't gentlemen, are they?\" asked Weeks.\n\n\"Well, if you ask me point-blank, they're not,\" replied Philip rather\ncrossly.\n\nHe hated being laughed at, and they laughed again.\n\n\"And will you tell me what a gentleman is?\" asked Weeks.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know; everyone knows what it is.\"\n\n\"Are you a gentleman?\"\n\nNo doubt had ever crossed Philip's mind on the subject, but he knew it was\nnot a thing to state of oneself.\n\n\"If a man tells you he's a gentleman you can bet your boots he isn't,\" he\nretorted.\n\n\"Am I a gentleman?\"\n\nPhilip's truthfulness made it difficult for him to answer, but he was\nnaturally polite.\n\n\"Oh, well, you're different,\" he said. \"You're American, aren't you?\"\n\n\"I suppose we may take it that only Englishmen are gentlemen,\" said Weeks\ngravely.\n\nPhilip did not contradict him.\n\n\"Couldn't you give me a few more particulars?\" asked Weeks.\n\nPhilip reddened, but, growing angry, did not care if he made himself\nridiculous.\n\n\"I can give you plenty.\"  He remembered his uncle's saying that it took\nthree generations to make a gentleman: it was a companion proverb to the\nsilk purse and the sow's ear. \"First of all he's the son of a gentleman,\nand he's been to a public school, and to Oxford or Cambridge.\"\n\n\"Edinburgh wouldn't do, I suppose?\" asked Weeks.\n\n\"And he talks English like a gentleman, and he wears the right sort of\nthings, and if he's a gentleman he can always tell if another chap's a\ngentleman.\"\n\nIt seemed rather lame to Philip as he went on, but there it was: that was\nwhat he meant by the word, and everyone he had ever known had meant that\ntoo.\n\n\"It is evident to me that I am not a gentleman,\" said Weeks. \"I don't see\nwhy you should have been so surprised because I was a dissenter.\"\n\n\"I don't quite know what a Unitarian is,\" said Philip.\n\nWeeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you almost expected\nhim to twitter.\n\n\"A Unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost everything that anybody\nelse believes, and he has a very lively sustaining faith in he doesn't\nquite know what.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should make fun of me,\" said Philip. \"I really want\nto know.\"\n\n\"My dear friend, I'm not making fun of you. I have arrived at that\ndefinition after years of great labour and the most anxious, nerve-racking\nstudy.\"\n\nWhen Philip and Hayward got up to go, Weeks handed Philip a little book in\na paper cover.\n\n\"I suppose you can read French pretty well by now. I wonder if this would\namuse you.\"\n\nPhilip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the title. It was\nRenan's Vie de Jesus.\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n\nIt occurred neither to Hayward nor to Weeks that the conversations which\nhelped them to pass an idle evening were being turned over afterwards in\nPhilip's active brain. It had never struck him before that religion was a\nmatter upon which discussion was possible. To him it meant the Church of\nEngland, and not to believe in its tenets was a sign of wilfulness which\ncould not fail of punishment here or hereafter. There was some doubt in\nhis mind about the chastisement of unbelievers. It was possible that a\nmerciful judge, reserving the flames of hell for the heathen--Mahommedans,\nBuddhists, and the rest--would spare Dissenters and Roman Catholics\n(though at the cost of how much humiliation when they were made to realise\ntheir error!), and it was also possible that He would be pitiful to those\nwho had had no chance of learning the truth,--this was reasonable enough,\nthough such were the activities of the Missionary Society there could not\nbe many in this condition--but if the chance had been theirs and they had\nneglected it (in which category were obviously Roman Catholics and\nDissenters), the punishment was sure and merited. It was clear that the\nmiscreant was in a parlous state. Perhaps Philip had not been taught it in\nso many words, but certainly the impression had been given him that only\nmembers of the Church of England had any real hope of eternal happiness.\n\nOne of the things that Philip had heard definitely stated was that the\nunbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but Weeks, though he believed\nin hardly anything that Philip believed, led a life of Christian purity.\nPhilip had received little kindness in his life, and he was touched by the\nAmerican's desire to help him: once when a cold kept him in bed for three\ndays, Weeks nursed him like a mother. There was neither vice nor\nwickedness in him, but only sincerity and loving-kindness. It was\nevidently possible to be virtuous and unbelieving.\n\nAlso Philip had been given to understand that people adhered to other\nfaiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their hearts they knew\nthey were false; they deliberately sought to deceive others. Now, for the\nsake of his German he had been accustomed on Sunday mornings to attend the\nLutheran service, but when Hayward arrived he began instead to go with him\nto Mass. He noticed that, whereas the Protestant church was nearly empty\nand the congregation had a listless air, the Jesuit on the other hand was\ncrowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with all their hearts. They had\nnot the look of hypocrites. He was surprised at the contrast; for he knew\nof course that the Lutherans, whose faith was closer to that of the Church\nof England, on that account were nearer the truth than the Roman\nCatholics. Most of the men--it was largely a masculine congregation--were\nSouth Germans; and he could not help saying to himself that if he had been\nborn in South Germany he would certainly have been a Roman Catholic. He\nmight just as well have been born in a Roman Catholic country as in\nEngland; and in England as well in a Wesleyan, Baptist, or Methodist\nfamily as in one that fortunately belonged to the church by law\nestablished. He was a little breathless at the danger he had run. Philip\nwas on friendly terms with the little Chinaman who sat at table with him\ntwice each day. His name was Sung. He was always smiling, affable, and\npolite. It seemed strange that he should frizzle in hell merely because he\nwas a Chinaman; but if salvation was possible whatever a man's faith was,\nthere did not seem to be any particular advantage in belonging to the\nChurch of England.\n\nPhilip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded Weeks. He\nhad to be careful, for he was very sensitive to ridicule; and the\nacidulous humour with which the American treated the Church of England\ndisconcerted him. Weeks only puzzled him more. He made Philip acknowledge\nthat those South Germans whom he saw in the Jesuit church were every bit\nas firmly convinced of the truth of Roman Catholicism as he was of that of\nthe Church of England, and from that he led him to admit that the\nMahommedan and the Buddhist were convinced also of the truth of their\nrespective religions. It looked as though knowing that you were right\nmeant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had no intention of\nundermining the boy's faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and\nfound it an absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own\nviews accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost\neverything that other people believed. Once Philip asked him a question,\nwhich he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had\nfallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting\ndiscussion in the newspapers.\n\n\"But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and St.\nAugustine be wrong?\"\n\n\"You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave\ndoubts whether I am either?\" asked Weeks.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question\nseemed impertinent.\n\n\"St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned\nround it.\"\n\n\"I don't know what that proves.\"\n\n\"Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived\nin an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what\nto us is positively incredible.\"\n\n\"Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?\"\n\n\"I don't.\"\n\nPhilip thought this over for a moment, then he said:\n\n\"I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as\nwrong as what they believed in the past.\"\n\n\"Neither do I.\"\n\n\"Then how can you believe anything at all?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nPhilip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward's religion.\n\n\"Men have always formed gods in their own image,\" said Weeks. \"He believes\nin the picturesque.\"\n\nPhilip paused for a little while, then he said:\n\n\"I don't see why one should believe in God at all.\"\n\nThe words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that he had\nceased to do so. It took his breath away like a plunge into cold water. He\nlooked at Weeks with startled eyes. Suddenly he felt afraid. He left Weeks\nas quickly as he could. He wanted to be alone. It was the most startling\nexperience that he had ever had. He tried to think it all out; it was very\nexciting, since his whole life seemed concerned (he thought his decision\non this matter must profoundly affect its course) and a mistake might lead\nto eternal damnation; but the more he reflected the more convinced he was;\nand though during the next few weeks he read books, aids to scepticism,\nwith eager interest it was only to confirm him in what he felt\ninstinctively. The fact was that he had ceased to believe not for this\nreason or the other, but because he had not the religious temperament.\nFaith had been forced upon him from the outside. It was a matter of\nenvironment and example. A new environment and a new example gave him the\nopportunity to find himself. He put off the faith of his childhood quite\nsimply, like a cloak that he no longer needed. At first life seemed\nstrange and lonely without the belief which, though he never realised it,\nhad been an unfailing support. He felt like a man who has leaned on a\nstick and finds himself forced suddenly to walk without assistance. It\nreally seemed as though the days were colder and the nights more solitary.\nBut he was upheld by the excitement; it seemed to make life a more\nthrilling adventure; and in a little while the stick which he had thrown\naside, the cloak which had fallen from his shoulders, seemed an\nintolerable burden of which he had been eased. The religious exercises\nwhich for so many years had been forced upon him were part and parcel of\nreligion to him. He thought of the collects and epistles which he had been\nmade to learn by heart, and the long services at the Cathedral through\nwhich he had sat when every limb itched with the desire for movement; and\nhe remembered those walks at night through muddy roads to the parish\nchurch at Blackstable, and the coldness of that bleak building; he sat\nwith his feet like ice, his fingers numb and heavy, and all around was the\nsickly odour of pomatum. Oh, he had been so bored! His heart leaped when\nhe saw he was free from all that.\n\nHe was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so easily, and,\nnot knowing that he felt as he did on account of the subtle workings of\nhis inmost nature, he ascribed the certainty he had reached to his own\ncleverness. He was unduly pleased with himself. With youth's lack of\nsympathy for an attitude other than its own he despised not a little Weeks\nand Hayward because they were content with the vague emotion which they\ncalled God and would not take the further step which to himself seemed so\nobvious. One day he went alone up a certain hill so that he might see a\nview which, he knew not why, filled him always with wild exhilaration. It\nwas autumn now, but often the days were cloudless still, and then the sky\nseemed to glow with a more splendid light: it was as though nature\nconsciously sought to put a fuller vehemence into the remaining days of\nfair weather. He looked down upon the plain, a-quiver with the sun,\nstretching vastly before him: in the distance were the roofs of Mannheim\nand ever so far away the dimness of Worms. Here and there a more piercing\nglitter was the Rhine. The tremendous spaciousness of it was glowing with\nrich gold. Philip, as he stood there, his heart beating with sheer joy,\nthought how the tempter had stood with Jesus on a high mountain and shown\nhim the kingdoms of the earth. To Philip, intoxicated with the beauty of\nthe scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which was spread before\nhim, and he was eager to step down and enjoy it. He was free from\ndegrading fears and free from prejudice. He could go his way without the\nintolerable dread of hell-fire. Suddenly he realised that he had lost also\nthat burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter\nof urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He\nwas responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his\nown master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked God that he\nno longer believed in Him.\n\nDrunk with pride in his intelligence and in his fearlessness, Philip\nentered deliberately upon a new life. But his loss of faith made less\ndifference in his behaviour than he expected. Though he had thrown on one\nside the Christian dogmas it never occurred to him to criticise the\nChristian ethics; he accepted the Christian virtues, and indeed thought it\nfine to practise them for their own sake, without a thought of reward or\npunishment. There was small occasion for heroism in the Frau Professor's\nhouse, but he was a little more exactly truthful than he had been, and he\nforced himself to be more than commonly attentive to the dull, elderly\nladies who sometimes engaged him in conversation. The gentle oath, the\nviolent adjective, which are typical of our language and which he had\ncultivated before as a sign of manliness, he now elaborately eschewed.\n\nHaving settled the whole matter to his satisfaction he sought to put it\nout of his mind, but that was more easily said than done; and he could not\nprevent the regrets nor stifle the misgivings which sometimes tormented\nhim. He was so young and had so few friends that immortality had no\nparticular attractions for him, and he was able without trouble to give up\nbelief in it; but there was one thing which made him wretched; he told\nhimself that he was unreasonable, he tried to laugh himself out of such\npathos; but the tears really came to his eyes when he thought that he\nwould never see again the beautiful mother whose love for him had grown\nmore precious as the years since her death passed on. And sometimes, as\nthough the influence of innumerable ancestors, Godfearing and devout, were\nworking in him unconsciously, there seized him a panic fear that perhaps\nafter all it was all true, and there was, up there behind the blue sky, a\njealous God who would punish in everlasting flames the atheist. At these\ntimes his reason could offer him no help, he imagined the anguish of a\nphysical torment which would last endlessly, he felt quite sick with fear\nand burst into a violent sweat. At last he would say to himself\ndesperately:\n\n\"After all, it's not my fault. I can't force myself to believe. If there\nis a God after all and he punishes me because I honestly don't believe in\nHim I can't help it.\"\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\nWinter set in. Weeks went to Berlin to attend the lectures of Paulssen,\nand Hayward began to think of going South. The local theatre opened its\ndoors. Philip and Hayward went to it two or three times a week with the\npraiseworthy intention of improving their German, and Philip found it a\nmore diverting manner of perfecting himself in the language than listening\nto sermons. They found themselves in the midst of a revival of the drama.\nSeveral of Ibsen's plays were on the repertory for the winter; Sudermann's\nDie Ehre was then a new play, and on its production in the quiet\nuniversity town caused the greatest excitement; it was extravagantly\npraised and bitterly attacked; other dramatists followed with plays\nwritten under the modern influence, and Philip witnessed a series of works\nin which the vileness of mankind was displayed before him. He had never\nbeen to a play in his life till then (poor touring companies sometimes\ncame to the Assembly Rooms at Blackstable, but the Vicar, partly on\naccount of his profession, partly because he thought it would be vulgar,\nnever went to see them) and the passion of the stage seized him. He felt\na thrill the moment he got into the little, shabby, ill-lit theatre. Soon\nhe came to know the peculiarities of the small company, and by the casting\ncould tell at once what were the characteristics of the persons in the\ndrama; but this made no difference to him. To him it was real life. It was\na strange life, dark and tortured, in which men and women showed to\nremorseless eyes the evil that was in their hearts: a fair face concealed\na depraved mind; the virtuous used virtue as a mask to hide their secret\nvice, the seeming-strong fainted within with their weakness; the honest\nwere corrupt, the chaste were lewd. You seemed to dwell in a room where\nthe night before an orgy had taken place: the windows had not been opened\nin the morning; the air was foul with the dregs of beer, and stale smoke,\nand flaring gas. There was no laughter. At most you sniggered at the\nhypocrite or the fool: the characters expressed themselves in cruel words\nthat seemed wrung out of their hearts by shame and anguish.\n\nPhilip was carried away by the sordid intensity of it. He seemed to see\nthe world again in another fashion, and this world too he was anxious to\nknow. After the play was over he went to a tavern and sat in the bright\nwarmth with Hayward to eat a sandwich and drink a glass of beer. All round\nwere little groups of students, talking and laughing; and here and there\nwas a family, father and mother, a couple of sons and a girl; and\nsometimes the girl said a sharp thing, and the father leaned back in his\nchair and laughed, laughed heartily. It was very friendly and innocent.\nThere was a pleasant homeliness in the scene, but for this Philip had no\neyes. His thoughts ran on the play he had just come from.\n\n\"You do feel it's life, don't you?\" he said excitedly. \"You know, I don't\nthink I can stay here much longer. I want to get to London so that I can\nreally begin. I want to have experiences. I'm so tired of preparing for\nlife: I want to live it now.\"\n\nSometimes Hayward left Philip to go home by himself. He would never\nexactly reply to Philip's eager questioning, but with a merry, rather\nstupid laugh, hinted at a romantic amour; he quoted a few lines of\nRossetti, and once showed Philip a sonnet in which passion and purple,\npessimism and pathos, were packed together on the subject of a young lady\ncalled Trude. Hayward surrounded his sordid and vulgar little adventures\nwith a glow of poetry, and thought he touched hands with Pericles and\nPheidias because to describe the object of his attentions he used the word\nhetaira instead of one of those, more blunt and apt, provided by the\nEnglish language. Philip in the daytime had been led by curiosity to pass\nthrough the little street near the old bridge, with its neat white houses\nand green shutters, in which according to Hayward the Fraulein Trude\nlived; but the women, with brutal faces and painted cheeks, who came out\nof their doors and cried out to him, filled him with fear; and he fled in\nhorror from the rough hands that sought to detain him. He yearned above\nall things for experience and felt himself ridiculous because at his age\nhe had not enjoyed that which all fiction taught him was the most\nimportant thing in life; but he had the unfortunate gift of seeing things\nas they were, and the reality which was offered him differed too terribly\nfrom the ideal of his dreams.\n\nHe did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed\nbefore the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is\nan illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it;\nbut the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless\nideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in\ncontact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they\nwere victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the\nnecessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look\nback upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for\nan unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read\nand all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is\nanother nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing\nis that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to\nit in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger\nthan himself. The companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing\nfor Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a\nliterary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself\ninto sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion,\nhis vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness for\nphilosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw\neverything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in\na golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and\nwhen it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an\nidealist.\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n\nPhilip was restless and dissatisfied. Hayward's poetic allusions troubled\nhis imagination, and his soul yearned for romance. At least that was how\nhe put it to himself.\n\nAnd it happened that an incident was taking place in Frau Erlin's house\nwhich increased Philip's preoccupation with the matter of sex. Two or\nthree times on his walks among the hills he had met Fraulein Cacilie\nwandering by herself. He had passed her with a bow, and a few yards\nfurther on had seen the Chinaman. He thought nothing of it; but one\nevening on his way home, when night had already fallen, he passed two\npeople walking very close together. Hearing his footstep, they separated\nquickly, and though he could not see well in the darkness he was almost\ncertain they were Cacilie and Herr Sung. Their rapid movement apart\nsuggested that they had been walking arm in arm. Philip was puzzled and\nsurprised. He had never paid much attention to Fraulein Cacilie. She was\na plain girl, with a square face and blunt features. She could not have\nbeen more than sixteen, since she still wore her long fair hair in a\nplait. That evening at supper he looked at her curiously; and, though of\nlate she had talked little at meals, she addressed him.\n\n\"Where did you go for your walk today, Herr Carey?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, I walked up towards the Konigstuhl.\"\n\n\"I didn't go out,\" she volunteered. \"I had a headache.\"\n\nThe Chinaman, who sat next to her, turned round.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" he said. \"I hope it's better now.\"\n\nFraulein Cacilie was evidently uneasy, for she spoke again to Philip.\n\n\"Did you meet many people on the way?\"\n\nPhilip could not help reddening when he told a downright lie.\n\n\"No. I don't think I saw a living soul.\"\n\nHe fancied that a look of relief passed across her eyes.\n\nSoon, however, there could be no doubt that there was something between\nthe pair, and other people in the Frau Professor's house saw them lurking\nin dark places. The elderly ladies who sat at the head of the table began\nto discuss what was now a scandal. The Frau Professor was angry and\nharassed. She had done her best to see nothing. The winter was at hand,\nand it was not as easy a matter then as in the summer to keep her house\nfull. Herr Sung was a good customer: he had two rooms on the ground floor,\nand he drank a bottle of Moselle at each meal. The Frau Professor charged\nhim three marks a bottle and made a good profit. None of her other guests\ndrank wine, and some of them did not even drink beer. Neither did she wish\nto lose Fraulein Cacilie, whose parents were in business in South America\nand paid well for the Frau Professor's motherly care; and she knew that if\nshe wrote to the girl's uncle, who lived in Berlin, he would immediately\ntake her away. The Frau Professor contented herself with giving them both\nsevere looks at table and, though she dared not be rude to the Chinaman,\ngot a certain satisfaction out of incivility to Cacilie. But the three\nelderly ladies were not content. Two were widows, and one, a Dutchwoman,\nwas a spinster of masculine appearance; they paid the smallest possible\nsum for their pension, and gave a good deal of trouble, but they were\npermanent and therefore had to be put up with. They went to the Frau\nProfessor and said that something must be done; it was disgraceful, and\nthe house was ceasing to be respectable. The Frau Professor tried\nobstinacy, anger, tears, but the three old ladies routed her, and with a\nsudden assumption of virtuous indignation she said that she would put a\nstop to the whole thing.\n\nAfter luncheon she took Cacilie into her bed-room and began to talk very\nseriously to her; but to her amazement the girl adopted a brazen attitude;\nshe proposed to go about as she liked; and if she chose to walk with the\nChinaman she could not see it was anybody's business but her own. The Frau\nProfessor threatened to write to her uncle.\n\n\"Then Onkel Heinrich will put me in a family in Berlin for the winter, and\nthat will be much nicer for me. And Herr Sung will come to Berlin too.\"\n\nThe Frau Professor began to cry. The tears rolled down her coarse, red,\nfat cheeks; and Cacilie laughed at her.\n\n\"That will mean three rooms empty all through the winter,\" she said.\n\nThen the Frau Professor tried another plan. She appealed to Fraulein\nCacilie's better nature: she was kind, sensible, tolerant; she treated her\nno longer as a child, but as a grown woman. She said that it wouldn't be\nso dreadful, but a Chinaman, with his yellow skin and flat nose, and his\nlittle pig's eyes! That's what made it so horrible. It filled one with\ndisgust to think of it.\n\n\"Bitte, bitte,\" said Cacilie, with a rapid intake of the breath. \"I won't\nlisten to anything against him.\"\n\n\"But it's not serious?\" gasped Frau Erlin.\n\n\"I love him. I love him. I love him.\"\n\n\"Gott im Himmel!\"\n\nThe Frau Professor stared at her with horrified surprise; she had thought\nit was no more than naughtiness on the child's part, and innocent, folly.\nbut the passion in her voice revealed everything. Cacilie looked at her\nfor a moment with flaming eyes, and then with a shrug of her shoulders\nwent out of the room.\n\nFrau Erlin kept the details of the interview to herself, and a day or two\nlater altered the arrangement of the table. She asked Herr Sung if he\nwould not come and sit at her end, and he with his unfailing politeness\naccepted with alacrity. Cacilie took the change indifferently. But as if\nthe discovery that the relations between them were known to the whole\nhousehold made them more shameless, they made no secret now of their walks\ntogether, and every afternoon quite openly set out to wander about the\nhills. It was plain that they did not care what was said of them. At last\neven the placidity of Professor Erlin was moved, and he insisted that his\nwife should speak to the Chinaman. She took him aside in his turn and\nexpostulated; he was ruining the girl's reputation, he was doing harm to\nthe house, he must see how wrong and wicked his conduct was; but she was\nmet with smiling denials; Herr Sung did not know what she was talking\nabout, he was not paying any attention to Fraulein Cacilie, he never\nwalked with her; it was all untrue, every word of it.\n\n\"Ach, Herr Sung, how can you say such things? You've been seen again and\nagain.\"\n\n\"No, you're mistaken. It's untrue.\"\n\nHe looked at her with an unceasing smile, which showed his even, little\nwhite teeth. He was quite calm. He denied everything. He denied with bland\neffrontery. At last the Frau Professor lost her temper and said the girl\nhad confessed she loved him. He was not moved. He continued to smile.\n\n\"Nonsense! Nonsense! It's all untrue.\"\n\nShe could get nothing out of him. The weather grew very bad; there was\nsnow and frost, and then a thaw with a long succession of cheerless days,\non which walking was a poor amusement. One evening when Philip had just\nfinished his German lesson with the Herr Professor and was standing for a\nmoment in the drawing-room, talking to Frau Erlin, Anna came quickly in.\n\n\"Mamma, where is Cacilie?\" she said.\n\n\"I suppose she's in her room.\"\n\n\"There's no light in it.\"\n\nThe Frau Professor gave an exclamation, and she looked at her daughter in\ndismay. The thought which was in Anna's head had flashed across hers.\n\n\"Ring for Emil,\" she said hoarsely.\n\nThis was the stupid lout who waited at table and did most of the\nhousework. He came in.\n\n\"Emil, go down to Herr Sung's room and enter without knocking. If anyone\nis there say you came in to see about the stove.\"\n\nNo sign of astonishment appeared on Emil's phlegmatic face.\n\nHe went slowly downstairs. The Frau Professor and Anna left the door open\nand listened. Presently they heard Emil come up again, and they called\nhim.\n\n\"Was anyone there?\" asked the Frau Professor.\n\n\"Yes, Herr Sung was there.\"\n\n\"Was he alone?\"\n\nThe beginning of a cunning smile narrowed his mouth.\n\n\"No, Fraulein Cacilie was there.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's disgraceful,\" cried the Frau Professor.\n\nNow he smiled broadly.\n\n\"Fraulein Cacilie is there every evening. She spends hours at a time\nthere.\"\n\nFrau Professor began to wring her hands.\n\n\"Oh, how abominable! But why didn't you tell me?\"\n\n\"It was no business of mine,\" he answered, slowly shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\"I suppose they paid you well. Go away. Go.\"\n\nHe lurched clumsily to the door.\n\n\"They must go away, mamma,\" said Anna.\n\n\"And who is going to pay the rent? And the taxes are falling due. It's all\nvery well for you to say they must go away. If they go away I can't pay\nthe bills.\" She turned to Philip, with tears streaming down her face.\n\"Ach, Herr Carey, you will not say what you have heard. If Fraulein\nForster--\" this was the Dutch spinster--\"if Fraulein Forster knew she\nwould leave at once. And if they all go we must close the house. I cannot\nafford to keep it.\"\n\n\"Of course I won't say anything.\"\n\n\"If she stays, I will not speak to her,\" said Anna.\n\nThat evening at supper Fraulein Cacilie, redder than usual, with a look of\nobstinacy on her face, took her place punctually; but Herr Sung did not\nappear, and for a while Philip thought he was going to shirk the ordeal.\nAt last he came, very smiling, his little eyes dancing with the apologies\nhe made for his late arrival. He insisted as usual on pouring out the Frau\nProfessor a glass of his Moselle, and he offered a glass to Fraulein\nForster. The room was very hot, for the stove had been alight all day and\nthe windows were seldom opened. Emil blundered about, but succeeded\nsomehow in serving everyone quickly and with order. The three old ladies\nsat in silence, visibly disapproving: the Frau Professor had scarcely\nrecovered from her tears; her husband was silent and oppressed.\nConversation languished. It seemed to Philip that there was something\ndreadful in that gathering which he had sat with so often; they looked\ndifferent under the light of the two hanging lamps from what they had ever\nlooked before; he was vaguely uneasy. Once he caught Cacilie's eye, and he\nthought she looked at him with hatred and contempt. The room was stifling.\nIt was as though the beastly passion of that pair troubled them all; there\nwas a feeling of Oriental depravity; a faint savour of joss-sticks, a\nmystery of hidden vices, seemed to make their breath heavy. Philip could\nfeel the beating of the arteries in his forehead. He could not understand\nwhat strange emotion distracted him; he seemed to feel something\ninfinitely attractive, and yet he was repelled and horrified.\n\nFor several days things went on. The air was sickly with the unnatural\npassion which all felt about them, and the nerves of the little household\nseemed to grow exasperated. Only Herr Sung remained unaffected; he was no\nless smiling, affable, and polite than he had been before: one could not\ntell whether his manner was a triumph of civilisation or an expression of\ncontempt on the part of the Oriental for the vanquished West. Cacilie was\nflaunting and cynical. At last even the Frau Professor could bear the\nposition no longer. Suddenly panic seized her; for Professor Erlin with\nbrutal frankness had suggested the possible consequences of an intrigue\nwhich was now manifest to everyone, and she saw her good name in\nHeidelberg and the repute of her house ruined by a scandal which could not\npossibly be hidden. For some reason, blinded perhaps by her interests,\nthis possibility had never occurred to her; and now, her wits muddled by\na terrible fear, she could hardly be prevented from turning the girl out\nof the house at once. It was due to Anna's good sense that a cautious\nletter was written to the uncle in Berlin suggesting that Cacilie should\nbe taken away.\n\nBut having made up her mind to lose the two lodgers, the Frau Professor\ncould not resist the satisfaction of giving rein to the ill-temper she had\ncurbed so long. She was free now to say anything she liked to Cacilie.\n\n\"I have written to your uncle, Cacilie, to take you away. I cannot have\nyou in my house any longer.\"\n\nHer little round eyes sparkled when she noticed the sudden whiteness of\nthe girl's face.\n\n\"You're shameless. Shameless,\" she went on.\n\nShe called her foul names.\n\n\"What did you say to my uncle Heinrich, Frau Professor?\" the girl asked,\nsuddenly falling from her attitude of flaunting independence.\n\n\"Oh, he'll tell you himself. I expect to get a letter from him tomorrow.\"\n\nNext day, in order to make the humiliation more public, at supper she\ncalled down the table to Cacilie.\n\n\"I have had a letter from your uncle, Cacilie. You are to pack your things\ntonight, and we will put you in the train tomorrow morning. He will meet\nyou himself in Berlin at the Central Bahnhof.\"\n\n\"Very good, Frau Professor.\"\n\nHerr Sung smiled in the Frau Professor's eyes, and notwithstanding her\nprotests insisted on pouring out a glass of wine for her. The Frau\nProfessor ate her supper with a good appetite. But she had triumphed\nunwisely. Just before going to bed she called the servant.\n\n\"Emil, if Fraulein Cacilie's box is ready you had better take it\ndownstairs tonight. The porter will fetch it before breakfast.\"\n\nThe servant went away and in a moment came back.\n\n\"Fraulein Cacilie is not in her room, and her bag has gone.\"\n\nWith a cry the Frau Professor hurried along: the box was on the floor,\nstrapped and locked; but there was no bag, and neither hat nor cloak. The\ndressing-table was empty. Breathing heavily, the Frau Professor ran\ndownstairs to the Chinaman's rooms, she had not moved so quickly for\ntwenty years, and Emil called out after her to beware she did not fall;\nshe did not trouble to knock, but burst in. The rooms were empty. The\nluggage had gone, and the door into the garden, still open, showed how it\nhad been got away. In an envelope on the table were notes for the money\ndue on the month's board and an approximate sum for extras. Groaning,\nsuddenly overcome by her haste, the Frau Professor sank obesely on to a\nsofa. There could be no doubt. The pair had gone off together. Emil\nremained stolid and unmoved.\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\n\nHayward, after saying for a month that he was going South next day and\ndelaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to the\nbother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven off\njust before Christmas by the preparations for that festival. He could not\nsupport the thought of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh to\nthink of the season's aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid\nthe obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve.\n\nPhilip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and it\nirritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. Though much under\nHayward's influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to a\ncharming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with which\nHayward looked upon his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was an\nadmirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his\nletters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences with\nwhich he came in contact, and he was able in his letters from Rome to put\na subtle fragrance of Italy. He thought the city of the ancient Romans a\nlittle vulgar, finding distinction only in the decadence of the Empire;\nbut the Rome of the Popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosen\nwords, quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. He wrote of old\nchurch music and the Alban Hills, and of the languor of incense and the\ncharm of the streets by night, in the rain, when the pavements shone and\nthe light of the street lamps was mysterious. Perhaps he repeated these\nadmirable letters to various friends. He did not know what a troubling\neffect they had upon Philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum.\nWith the spring Hayward grew dithyrambic. He proposed that Philip should\ncome down to Italy. He was wasting his time at Heidelberg. The Germans\nwere gross and life there was common; how could the soul come to her own\nin that prim landscape? In Tuscany the spring was scattering flowers\nthrough the land, and Philip was nineteen; let him come and they could\nwander through the mountain towns of Umbria. Their names sang in Philip's\nheart. And Cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to Italy. When he thought\nof them Philip was seized with a restlessness he could not account for. He\ncursed his fate because he had no money to travel, and he knew his uncle\nwould not send him more than the fifteen pounds a month which had been\nagreed upon. He had not managed his allowance very well. His pension and\nthe price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found going\nabout with Hayward expensive. Hayward had often suggested excursions, a\nvisit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when Philip had come to the end of\nhis month's money; and with the folly of his age he had been unwilling to\nconfess he could not afford an extravagance.\n\nLuckily Hayward's letters came seldom, and in the intervals Philip settled\ndown again to his industrious life. He had matriculated at the university\nand attended one or two courses of lectures. Kuno Fischer was then at the\nheight of his fame and during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly on\nSchopenhauer. It was Philip's introduction to philosophy. He had a\npractical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he found an\nunexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical disquisitions; they\nmade him breathless; it was a little like watching a tight-rope dancer\ndoing perilous feats over an abyss; but it was very exciting. The\npessimism of the subject attracted his youth; and he believed that the\nworld he was about to enter was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness.\nThat made him none the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course,\nMrs. Carey, acting as the correspondent for his guardian's views,\nsuggested that it was time for him to come back to England, he agreed with\nenthusiasm. He must make up his mind now what he meant to do. If he left\nHeidelberg at the end of July they could talk things over during August,\nand it would be a good time to make arrangements.\n\nThe date of his departure was settled, and Mrs. Carey wrote to him again.\nShe reminded him of Miss Wilkinson, through whose kindness he had gone to\nFrau Erlin's house at Heidelberg, and told him that she had arranged to\nspend a few weeks with them at Blackstable. She would be crossing from\nFlushing on such and such a day, and if he travelled at the same time he\ncould look after her and come on to Blackstable in her company. Philip's\nshyness immediately made him write to say that he could not leave till a\nday or two afterwards. He pictured himself looking out for Miss Wilkinson,\nthe embarrassment of going up to her and asking if it were she (and he\nmight so easily address the wrong person and be snubbed), and then the\ndifficulty of knowing whether in the train he ought to talk to her or\nwhether he could ignore her and read his book.\n\nAt last he left Heidelberg. For three months he had been thinking of\nnothing but the future; and he went without regret. He never knew that he\nhad been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave him a copy of Der Trompeter von\nSackingen and in return he presented her with a volume of William Morris.\nVery wisely neither of them ever read the other's present.\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\n\nPhilip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. He had never noticed\nbefore that they were quite old people. The Vicar received him with his\nusual, not unamiable indifference. He was a little stouter, a little\nbalder, a little grayer. Philip saw how insignificant he was. His face was\nweak and self-indulgent. Aunt Louisa took him in her arms and kissed him;\nand tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. Philip was touched and\nembarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared for him.\n\n\"Oh, the time has seemed long since you've been away, Philip,\" she cried.\n\nShe stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes.\n\n\"You've grown. You're quite a man now.\"\n\nThere was a very small moustache on his upper lip. He had bought a razor\nand now and then with infinite care shaved the down off his smooth chin.\n\n\"We've been so lonely without you.\" And then shyly, with a little break in\nher voice, she asked: \"You are glad to come back to your home, aren't\nyou?\"\n\n\"Yes, rather.\"\n\nShe was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she put round\nhis neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken bones, and her\nfaded face was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls which she still wore in the\nfashion of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her little\nwithered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away by\nthe first sharp wind. Philip realised that they had done with life, these\ntwo quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and they were\nwaiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigour\nand his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was appalled at the\nwaste. They had done nothing, and when they went it would be just as if\nthey had never been. He felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved\nher suddenly because she loved him.\n\nThen Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till the\nCareys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into the room.\n\n\"This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip,\" said Mrs. Carey.\n\n\"The prodigal has returned,\" she said, holding out her hand. \"I have\nbrought a rose for the prodigal's buttonhole.\"\n\nWith a gay smile she pinned to Philip's coat the flower she had just\npicked in the garden. He blushed and felt foolish. He knew that Miss\nWilkinson was the daughter of his Uncle William's last rector, and he had\na wide acquaintance with the daughters of clergymen. They wore ill-cut\nclothes and stout boots. They were generally dressed in black, for in\nPhilip's early years at Blackstable homespuns had not reached East Anglia,\nand the ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. Their hair was done\nvery untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen. They\nconsidered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether they\nwere old or young. They bore their religion arrogantly. The closeness of\ntheir connection with the church made them adopt a slightly dictatorial\nattitude to the rest of mankind.\n\nMiss Wilkinson was very different. She wore a white muslin gown stamped\nwith gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed, high-heeled shoes, with\nopen-work stockings. To Philip's inexperience it seemed that she was\nwonderfully dressed; he did not see that her frock was cheap and showy.\nHer hair was elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of the\nforehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as though it\ncould never be in the least disarranged. She had large black eyes and her\nnose was slightly aquiline; in profile she had somewhat the look of a bird\nof prey, but full face she was prepossessing. She smiled a great deal, but\nher mouth was large and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, which\nwere big and rather yellow. But what embarrassed Philip most was that she\nwas heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine behaviour and\ndid not think a lady ever powdered; but of course Miss Wilkinson was a\nlady because she was a clergyman's daughter, and a clergyman was a\ngentleman.\n\nPhilip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. She spoke with a slight\nFrench accent; and he did not know why she should, since she had been born\nand bred in the heart of England. He thought her smile affected, and the\ncoy sprightliness of her manner irritated him. For two or three days he\nremained silent and hostile, but Miss Wilkinson apparently did not notice\nit. She was very affable. She addressed her conversation almost\nexclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the way she\nappealed constantly to his sane judgment. She made him laugh too, and\nPhilip could never resist people who amused him: he had a gift now and\nthen of saying neat things; and it was pleasant to have an appreciative\nlistener. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey had a sense of humour, and they\nnever laughed at anything he said. As he grew used to Miss Wilkinson, and\nhis shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the French\naccent picturesque; and at a garden party which the doctor gave she was\nvery much better dressed than anyone else. She wore a blue foulard with\nlarge white spots, and Philip was tickled at the sensation it caused.\n\n\"I'm certain they think you're no better than you should be,\" he told her,\nlaughing.\n\n\"It's the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy,\" she\nanswered.\n\nOne day when Miss Wilkinson was in her room he asked Aunt Louisa how old\nshe was.\n\n\"Oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady's age; but she's certainly too\nold for you to marry.\"\n\nThe Vicar gave his slow, obese smile.\n\n\"She's no chicken, Louisa,\" he said. \"She was nearly grown up when we were\nin Lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. She wore a pigtail hanging\ndown her back.\"\n\n\"She may not have been more than ten,\" said Philip.\n\n\"She was older than that,\" said Aunt Louisa.\n\n\"I think she was near twenty,\" said the Vicar.\n\n\"Oh no, William. Sixteen or seventeen at the outside.\"\n\n\"That would make her well over thirty,\" said Philip.\n\nAt that moment Miss Wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song by\nBenjamin Goddard. She had put her hat on, for she and Philip were going\nfor a walk, and she held out her hand for him to button her glove. He did\nit awkwardly. He felt embarrassed but gallant. Conversation went easily\nbetween them now, and as they strolled along they talked of all manner of\nthings. She told Philip about Berlin, and he told her of his year in\nHeidelberg. As he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gained\na new interest: he described the people at Frau Erlin's house; and to the\nconversations between Hayward and Weeks, which at the time seemed so\nsignificant, he gave a little twist, so that they looked absurd. He was\nflattered at Miss Wilkinson's laughter.\n\n\"I'm quite frightened of you,\" she said. \"You're so sarcastic.\"\n\nThen she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love affairs at\nHeidelberg. Without thinking, he frankly answered that he had not; but she\nrefused to believe him.\n\n\"How secretive you are!\" she said. \"At your age is it likely?\"\n\nHe blushed and laughed.\n\n\"You want to know too much,\" he said.\n\n\"Ah, I thought so,\" she laughed triumphantly. \"Look at him blushing.\"\n\nHe was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and he changed\nthe conversation so as to make her believe he had all sorts of romantic\nthings to conceal. He was angry with himself that he had not. There had\nbeen no opportunity.\n\nMiss Wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. She resented having to earn\nher living and told Philip a long story of an uncle of her mother's, who\nhad been expected to leave her a fortune but had married his cook and\nchanged his will. She hinted at the luxury of her home and compared her\nlife in Lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in, with\nthe mean dependence of her present state. Philip was a little puzzled when\nhe mentioned this afterwards to Aunt Louisa, and she told him that when\nshe knew the Wilkinsons they had never had anything more than a pony and\na dog-cart; Aunt Louisa had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was married\nand had children before Emily was born she could never have had much hope\nof inheriting his fortune. Miss Wilkinson had little good to say of\nBerlin, where she was now in a situation. She complained of the vulgarity\nof German life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of Paris,\nwhere she had spent a number of years. She did not say how many. She had\nbeen governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who had\nmarried a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met many\ndistinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their names. Actors from the\nComedie Francaise had come to the house frequently, and Coquelin, sitting\nnext her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spoke\nsuch perfect French. Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given her\na copy of Sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had\nforgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less and she\nwould lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss Wilkinson with a\nrippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What a man, but what a writer!\nHayward had talked of Maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown to\nPhilip.\n\n\"Did he make love to you?\" he asked.\n\nThe words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked them\nnevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled by\nher conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her.\n\n\"What a question!\" she cried. \"Poor Guy, he made love to every woman he\nmet. It was a habit that he could not break himself of.\"\n\nShe sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past.\n\n\"He was a charming man,\" she murmured.\n\nA greater experience than Philip's would have guessed from these words the\nprobabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited to\nluncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tall\ngirls she was teaching; the introduction:\n\n\"Notre Miss Anglaise.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle.\"\n\nAnd the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while the\ndistinguished writer talked to his host and hostess.\n\nBut to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies.\n\n\"Do tell me all about him,\" he said excitedly.\n\n\"There's nothing to tell,\" she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to\nconvey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts.\n\"You mustn't be curious.\"\n\nShe began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. There\nwas grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Elysees had a\ndistinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stile\nnow by the high-road, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the\nstately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant,\nand the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the\nmother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes.\n\n\"Oh, what a misery to be poor!\" she cried. \"These beautiful things, it's\nonly in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them!\nPoor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used to\nwhisper to me: 'Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.'\"\n\nPhilip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of\nit.\n\n\"Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French,\nwho are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is.\"\n\nPhilip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that\nMiss Wilkinson's ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyes\nquickly.\n\n\"You should go to France. Why don't you go to Paris for a year? You would\nlearn French, and it would--deniaiser you.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked Philip.\n\nShe laughed slyly.\n\n\"You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how to\ntreat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don't\nknow how to make love. They can't even tell a woman she is charming\nwithout looking foolish.\"\n\nPhilip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to\nbehave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant\nand witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was\ntoo much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them.\n\n\"Oh, I love Paris,\" sighed Miss Wilkinson. \"But I had to go to Berlin. I\nwas with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing\nto do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They're relations of\nMadame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on\nthe cinquieme: it wasn't at all respectable. You know about the Rue\nBreda--ces dames, you know.\"\n\nPhilip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting,\nand anxious she should not think him too ignorant.\n\n\"But I didn't care. Je suis libre, n'est-ce pas?\" She was very fond of\nspeaking French, which indeed she spoke well. \"Once I had such a curious\nadventure there.\"\n\nShe paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it.\n\n\"You wouldn't tell me yours in Heidelberg,\" she said.\n\n\"They were so unadventurous,\" he retorted.\n\n\"I don't know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we\ntalk about together.\"\n\n\"You don't imagine I shall tell her.\"\n\n\"Will you promise?\"\n\nWhen he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on\nthe floor above her--but she interrupted herself.\n\n\"Why don't you go in for art? You paint so prettily.\"\n\n\"Not well enough for that.\"\n\n\"That is for others to judge. Je m'y connais, and I believe you have the\nmaking of a great artist.\"\n\n\"Can't you see Uncle William's face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go\nto Paris and study art?\"\n\n\"You're your own master, aren't you?\"\n\n\"You're trying to put me off. Please go on with the story.\" Miss\nWilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed her\nseveral times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. She\nsaw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. And one\nday she found a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He told\nher that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs\nfor her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did not\nreply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day there was\nanother letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next she\nmet him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. And every day\nthe letters came, and now he begged her to see him. He said he would come\nin the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. Of\ncourse it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never\nopen the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the\nbell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had forgotten to shut\nthe door when she came in.\n\n\"C'etait une fatalite.\"\n\n\"And what happened then?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"That is the end of the story,\" she replied, with a ripple of laughter.\n\nPhilip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and strange\nemotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. He saw the dark\nstaircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the\nletters--oh, he would never have dared to do that--and then the silent,\nalmost mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance.\n\n\"What was he like?\"\n\n\"Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon.\"\n\n\"Do you know him still?\"\n\nPhilip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this.\n\n\"He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You're heartless, all\nof you.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" said Philip, not without embarrassment.\n\n\"Let us go home,\" said Miss Wilkinson.\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\n\nPhilip could not get Miss Wilkinson's story out of his head. It was clear\nenough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little\nshocked. That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had\nread enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule,\nbut Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman.\nThen it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor\nthe last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon Miss\nWilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to\nher. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted\nwhat he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never\nhappened to him. It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon\nhis telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to\ntell. It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure\nwhether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full\nof intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was\nfibbing. He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve.\n\nMiss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but her\nsongs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip;\nand together they spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered if\nhe had a voice and insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasant\nbaritone and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usual\nbashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at a\nconvenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour's lesson. She had a\nnatural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellent\ngoverness. She had method and firmness. Though her French accent was so\nmuch part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner\nleft her when she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense.\nHer voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she suppressed\ninattention and corrected slovenliness. She knew what she was about and\nput Philip to scales and exercises.\n\nWhen the lesson was over she resumed without effort her seductive smiles,\nher voice became again soft and winning, but Philip could not so easily\nput away the pupil as she the pedagogue; and this impression convicted\nwith the feelings her stories had aroused in him. He looked at her more\nnarrowly. He liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. In\nthe morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just a\nlittle rough. He wished she would hide it, but the weather was very warm\njust then and she wore blouses which were cut low. She was very fond of\nwhite; in the morning it did not suit her. At night she often looked very\nattractive, she put on a gown which was almost a dinner dress, and she\nwore a chain of garnets round her neck; the lace about her bosom and at\nher elbows gave her a pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (at\nBlackstable no one used anything but Eau de Cologne, and that only on\nSundays or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and exotic.\nShe really looked very young then.\n\nPhilip was much exercised over her age. He added twenty and seventeen\ntogether, and could not bring them to a satisfactory total. He asked Aunt\nLouisa more than once why she thought Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven: she\ndidn't look more than thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged more\nrapidly than English women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad that\nshe might almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn't have\nthought her more than twenty-six.\n\n\"She's more than that,\" said Aunt Louisa.\n\nPhilip did not believe in the accuracy of the Careys' statements. All they\ndistinctly remembered was that Miss Wilkinson had not got her hair up the\nlast time they saw her in Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelve\nthen: it was so long ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They said\nit was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just as\nlikely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and twelve were only\ntwenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old, was it? Cleopatra was\nforty-eight when Antony threw away the world for her sake.\n\nIt was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and cloudless; but the heat\nwas tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there was a pleasant\nexhilaration in the air, so that one was excited and not oppressed by the\nAugust sunshine. There was a pond in the garden in which a fountain\nplayed; water lilies grew in it and gold fish sunned themselves on the\nsurface. Philip and Miss Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there\nafter dinner and lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses.\nThey talked and read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which the\nVicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit,\nand used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow a\nslave to a habit. He forgot that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea.\n\nOne day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip La Vie de Boheme. She had found it by\naccident when she was rummaging among the books in the Vicar's study. It\nhad been bought in a lot with something Mr. Carey wanted and had remained\nundiscovered for ten years.\n\nPhilip began to read Murger's fascinating, ill-written, absurd\nmasterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. His soul danced with joy at\nthat picture of starvation which is so good-humoured, of squalor which is\nso picturesque, of sordid love which is so romantic, of bathos which is so\nmoving. Rodolphe and Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through the\ngray streets of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now in\nanother, in their quaint costumes of Louis Philippe, with their tears and\ntheir smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. Who can resist them? It is only\nwhen you return to the book with a sounder judgment that you find how\ngross their pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utter\nworthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay procession.\nPhilip was enraptured.\n\n\"Don't you wish you were going to Paris instead of London?\" asked Miss\nWilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm.\n\n\"It's too late now even if I did,\" he answered.\n\nDuring the fortnight he had been back from Germany there had been much\ndiscussion between himself and his uncle about his future. He had refused\ndefinitely to go to Oxford, and now that there was no chance of his\ngetting scholarships even Mr. Carey came to the conclusion that he could\nnot afford it. His entire fortune had consisted of only two thousand\npounds, and though it had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, he\nhad not been able to live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. It\nwould be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on at\na university, for three years at Oxford which would lead him no nearer to\nearning his living. He was anxious to go straight to London. Mrs. Carey\nthought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the Army, the\nNavy, the Law, and the Church. She had added medicine because her\nbrother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no\none ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out of the\nquestion, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the law\nremained. The local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in\nfor engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once.\n\n\"I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade,\" she said.\n\n\"No, he must have a profession,\" answered the Vicar.\n\n\"Why not make him a doctor like his father?\"\n\n\"I should hate it,\" said Philip.\n\nMrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question, since he was\nnot going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the impression that a\ndegree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it was\nsuggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the\nfamily lawyer, Albert Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of\nBlackstable for the late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether he\nwould take Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a\nvacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession was\ngreatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had small\nchance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, that\nPhilip should become a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his\nwife knew in the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone\nbeing a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitor\nexplained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase of\ncompanies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine\nthe books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order\nwhich old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charter\nhad been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year more\nrespectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whom\nAlbert Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy for\nan articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three hundred\npounds. Half of this would be returned during the five years the articles\nlasted in the form of salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philip\nfelt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in London\nover-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wrote\nto ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and\nMr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into it who had\nbeen to public schools and a university; moreover, if Philip disliked the\nwork and after a year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was the\naccountant's name, would return half the money paid for the articles. This\nsettled it, and it was arranged that Philip should start work on the\nfifteenth of September.\n\n\"I have a full month before me,\" said Philip.\n\n\"And then you go to freedom and I to bondage,\" returned Miss Wilkinson.\n\nHer holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving Blackstable\nonly a day or two before Philip.\n\n\"I wonder if we shall ever meet again,\" she said.\n\n\"I don't know why not.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't speak in that practical way. I never knew anyone so\nunsentimental.\"\n\nPhilip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think him a\nmilksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and he\nwas getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothing\nbut art and literature. He ought to make love to her. They had talked a\ngood deal of love. There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then\nthere was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: he\nhad asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so\nviolently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again.\nIt was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions of that\nsort. She looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it was hot that\nafternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in a\nline on her upper lip. He called to mind Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung.\nHe had never thought of Cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedingly\nplain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic. He had a\nchance of romance too. Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that\nadded zest to a possible adventure. When he thought of it at night in bed,\nor when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by\nit; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque.\n\nAt all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised if\nhe made love to her. He had a feeling that she must think it odd of him to\nmake no sign: perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the last\nday or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her\neyes.\n\n\"A penny for your thoughts,\" said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him with a\nsmile.\n\n\"I'm not going to tell you,\" he answered.\n\nHe was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He wondered if\nshe expected him to do it; but after all he didn't see how he could\nwithout any preliminary business at all. She would just think him mad, or\nshe might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. He\nwondered how Herr Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie. It would be\nbeastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell\nthe doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool. Aunt\nLouisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a\nday; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to;\nthey would say she was old enough to be his mother.\n\n\"Twopence for your thoughts,\" smiled Miss Wilkinson.\n\n\"I was thinking about you,\" he answered boldly.\n\nThat at all events committed him to nothing.\n\n\"What were you thinking?\"\n\n\"Ah, now you want to know too much.\"\n\n\"Naughty boy!\" said Miss Wilkinson.\n\nThere it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she\nsaid something which reminded him of the governess. She called him\nplayfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her\nsatisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky.\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child.\"\n\n\"Are you cross?\"\n\n\"Very.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean to.\"\n\nShe put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when they shook\nhands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this time\nthere was no doubt about it.\n\nHe did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last was his\nchance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it was\na little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. He had read many\ndescriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush of\nemotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in wave\nupon wave of passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had often\npictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some\nlovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in the\nrippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine himself burying\nhis face in Miss Wilkinson's hair, it always struck him as a little\nsticky. All the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue,\nand he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest.\nHe owed it to himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss Miss\nWilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark,\nand after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He would kiss her that\nvery evening. He swore an oath to that effect.\n\nHe laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should take a\nstroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side by\nside. Philip was very nervous. He did not know why, but the conversation\nwould not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thing\nto do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly put\nhis arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to\nbe held next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of the\ngarden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They sat on a\nbench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunity\nwhen Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted on\nmoving. They walked round the garden once more, and Philip promised\nhimself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again;\nbut as they passed the house, they saw Mrs. Carey standing at the door.\n\n\"Hadn't you young people better come in? I'm sure the night air isn't good\nfor you.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we had better go in,\" said Philip. \"I don't want you to catch\ncold.\"\n\nHe said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more that\nnight. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious with\nhimself. He had been a perfect fool. He was certain that Miss Wilkinson\nexpected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn't have come into the\ngarden. She was always saying that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women.\nPhilip had read French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would have\nseized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he\nwould have pressed his lips on her nuque. He did not know why Frenchmen\nalways kissed ladies on the nuque. He did not himself see anything so\nvery attractive in the nape of the neck. Of course it was much easier for\nFrenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; Philip could\nnever help feeling that to say passionate things in English sounded a\nlittle absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of\nMiss Wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now he\nwas wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respect\nhimself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that the\nnext night he would kiss her without fail.\n\nNext day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought was\nthat they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. He was in\nhigh spirits at breakfast. Miss Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that she\nhad a headache and would remain in bed. She did not come down till\ntea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she\nwas quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After\nprayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs. Carey.\nThen she turned to Philip.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" she cried. \"I was just going to kiss you too.\"\n\n\"Why don't you?\" he said.\n\nShe laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his.\n\nThe following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden was\nsweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to the beach to bathe and\nwhen he came home ate a magnificent dinner. They were having a tennis\nparty at the vicarage in the afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best\ndress. She certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not\nhelp noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and the\ndoctor's married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She sat\nin a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over\nherself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was fond of\ntennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net:\nnotwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a\nball past him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he lay\ndown at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and panting.\n\n\"Flannels suit you,\" she said. \"You look very nice this afternoon.\"\n\nHe blushed with delight.\n\n\"I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly ravishing.\"\n\nShe smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes.\n\nAfter supper he insisted that she should come out.\n\n\"Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?\"\n\n\"It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out.\"\n\nHe was in high spirits.\n\n\"D'you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your account?\" said Miss\nWilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen garden. \"She says\nI mustn't flirt with you.\"\n\n\"Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed it.\"\n\n\"She was only joking.\"\n\n\"It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night.\"\n\n\"If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!\"\n\n\"Was that all that prevented you?\"\n\n\"I prefer to kiss people without witnesses.\"\n\n\"There are no witnesses now.\"\n\nPhilip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only laughed\na little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come quite naturally.\nPhilip was very proud of himself. He said he would, and he had. It was the\neasiest thing in the world. He wished he had done it before. He did it\nagain.\n\n\"Oh, you mustn't,\" she said.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I like it,\" she laughed.\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\n\nNext day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the fountain,\nand their books; but they did not read. Miss Wilkinson made herself\ncomfortable and she opened the red sun-shade. Philip was not at all shy\nnow, but at first she would not let him kiss her.\n\n\"It was very wrong of me last night,\" she said. \"I couldn't sleep, I felt\nI'd done so wrong.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" he cried. \"I'm sure you slept like a top.\"\n\n\"What do you think your uncle would say if he knew?\"\n\n\"There's no reason why he should know.\"\n\nHe leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat.\n\n\"Why d'you want to kiss me?\"\n\nHe knew he ought to reply: \"Because I love you.\" But he could not bring\nhimself to say it.\n\n\"Why do you think?\" he asked instead.\n\nShe looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with the tips of\nher fingers.\n\n\"How smooth your face is,\" she murmured.\n\n\"I want shaving awfully,\" he said.\n\nIt was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic speeches. He\nfound that silence helped him much more than words. He could look\ninexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson sighed.\n\n\"Do you like me at all?\"\n\n\"Yes, awfully.\"\n\nWhen he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. He pretended to be\nmuch more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded in playing a\npart which looked very well in his own eyes.\n\n\"I'm beginning to be rather frightened of you,\" said Miss Wilkinson.\n\n\"You'll come out after supper, won't you?\" he begged.\n\n\"Not unless you promise to behave yourself.\"\n\n\"I'll promise anything.\"\n\nHe was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating, and at\ntea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss Wilkinson looked at him\nnervously.\n\n\"You mustn't have those shining eyes,\" she said to him afterwards. \"What\nwill your Aunt Louisa think?\"\n\n\"I don't care what she thinks.\"\n\nMiss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They had no sooner\nfinished supper than he said to her:\n\n\"Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a cigarette?\"\n\n\"Why don't you let Miss Wilkinson rest?\" said Mrs. Carey. \"You must\nremember she's not as young as you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'd like to go out, Mrs. Carey,\" she said, rather acidly.\n\n\"After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while,\" said the Vicar.\n\n\"Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes,\" said Miss\nWilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind them.\n\nPhilip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung his arms\nround her. She tried to push him away.\n\n\"You promised you'd be good, Philip.\"\n\n\"You didn't think I was going to keep a promise like that?\"\n\n\"Not so near the house, Philip,\" she said. \"Supposing someone should come\nout suddenly?\"\n\nHe led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this\ntime Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He kissed her passionately.\nIt was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all\nin the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the\ntouch of her hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have\nthought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them\nin the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"How beautifully you make love,\" she said.\n\nThat was what he thought himself.\n\n\"Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!\" he murmured\npassionately.\n\nIt was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and\nthe wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. It was only that\nhe exaggerated a little. He was tremendously interested and excited in the\neffect he could see it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at\nlast she suggested going in.\n\n\"Oh, don't go yet,\" he cried.\n\n\"I must,\" she muttered. \"I'm frightened.\"\n\nHe had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then.\n\n\"I can't go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are burning. I\nwant the night-air. Good-night.\"\n\nHe held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. He thought she\nstifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent! When, after a decent interval\nduring which he had been rather bored in the dark garden by himself, he\nwent in he found that Miss Wilkinson had already gone to bed.\n\nAfter that things were different between them. The next day and the day\nafter Philip showed himself an eager lover. He was deliciously flattered\nto discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in\nEnglish, and she told him so in French. She paid him compliments. No one\nhad ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had\na sensual mouth. He had never bothered much about his personal appearance,\nbut now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with\nsatisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that\nseemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her a good deal, for he found it\neasier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she\nexpected of him. It still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her.\nHe wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would\nwillingly have discussed minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said\nthings that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished Hayward had been\nthere so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had\nbetter do next. He could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush\nthings or let them take their time. There were only three weeks more.\n\n\"I can't bear to think of that,\" she said. \"It breaks my heart. And then\nperhaps we shall never see one another again.\"\n\n\"If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so unkind to me,\" he\nwhispered.\n\n\"Oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it is? Men are always the\nsame. They're never satisfied.\"\n\nAnd when he pressed her, she said:\n\n\"But don't you see it's impossible. How can we here?\"\n\nHe proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do\nwith them.\n\n\"I daren't take the risk. It would be too dreadful if your aunt found\nout.\"\n\nA day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant.\n\n\"Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered to stay at\nhome and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go to church.\"\n\nGenerally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to allow Mary\nAnn to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending\nevensong.\n\nPhilip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in\nhis views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could not be\nexpected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church\nquietly. But he only went in the morning. He regarded this as a graceful\nconcession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second\ntime as an adequate assertion of free thought.\n\nWhen he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment,\nthen shook her head.\n\n\"No, I won't,\" she said.\n\nBut on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. \"I don't think I'll come\nto church this evening,\" she said suddenly. \"I've really got a dreadful\nheadache.\"\n\nMrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some 'drops' which she\nwas herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and\nimmediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie\ndown.\n\n\"Are you sure there's nothing you'll want?\" asked Mrs. Carey anxiously.\n\n\"Quite sure, thank you.\"\n\n\"Because, if there isn't, I think I'll go to church. I don't often have\nthe chance of going in the evening.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, do go.\"\n\n\"I shall be in,\" said Philip. \"If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can\nalways call me.\"\n\n\"You'd better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss\nWilkinson rings, you'll hear.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Philip.\n\nSo after six o'clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss\nWilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with all his heart\nthat he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take\nthe opportunity which he had made. What would Miss Wilkinson think of him\nif he did not! He went into the hall and listened. There was not a sound.\nHe wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps she had\nforgotten his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up the stairs\nas softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked. He\nstood outside Miss Wilkinson's room and listened; he put his hand on the\nknob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for at\nleast five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He\nwould willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he\nknew would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board in\na swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there\nand stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that\nforced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you\nhad climbed up. Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly\nand walked in. He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.\n\nMiss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the\ndoor, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open.\n\n\"Oh, it's you. What d'you want?\"\n\nShe had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat.\nIt was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of\nit was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. She\nwore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She looked grotesque.\nPhilip's heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so\nunattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the door behind him and\nlocked it.\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\n\nPhilip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when he\nstretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the\nVenetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with\nsatisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of Miss\nWilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why, he\ncould not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid him\nfor so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. During his\nchildhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a naval\nofficer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to call Miss\nWilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suited\nher better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable\nfrom his impression of her. He frowned a little: somehow or other he saw\nher now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned round\nand he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the\nslight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the\nneck. His triumph was short-lived. He reckoned out her age again, and he\ndid not see how she could be less than forty. It made the affair\nridiculous. She was plain and old. His quick fancy showed her to him,\nwrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for her\nposition and too young for her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly that\nhe never wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing\nher. He was horrified with himself. Was that love?\n\nHe took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the moment\nof seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it was with\na sinking heart. Prayers were over, and they were sitting down at\nbreakfast.\n\n\"Lazybones,\" Miss Wilkinson cried gaily.\n\nHe looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was sitting with\nher back to the window. She was really quite nice. He wondered why he had\nthought such things about her. His self-satisfaction returned to him.\n\nHe was taken aback by the change in her. She told him in a voice thrilling\nwith emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him; and when a\nlittle later they went into the drawing-room for his singing lesson and\nshe sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the middle of a\nscale and said:\n\n\"Embrasse-moi.\"\n\nWhen he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was slightly\nuncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt rather\nchoked.\n\n\"Ah, je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime,\" she cried, with her extravagantly\nFrench accent.\n\nPhilip wished she would speak English.\n\n\"I say, I don't know if it's struck you that the gardener's quite likely\nto pass the window any minute.\"\n\n\"Ah, je m'en fiche du jardinier. Je m'en refiche, et je m'en\ncontrefiche.\"\n\nPhilip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not know why it\nslightly irritated him.\n\nAt last he said:\n\n\"Well, I think I'll tootle along to the beach and have a dip.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're not going to leave me this morning--of all mornings?\" Philip\ndid not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter.\n\n\"Would you like me to stay?\" he smiled.\n\n\"Oh, you darling! But no, go. Go. I want to think of you mastering the\nsalt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean.\"\n\nHe got his hat and sauntered off.\n\n\"What rot women talk!\" he thought to himself.\n\nBut he was pleased and happy and flattered. She was evidently frightfully\ngone on him. As he limped along the high street of Blackstable he looked\nwith a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed. He knew a good\nmany to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought to\nhimself, if they only knew! He did want someone to know very badly. He\nthought he would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. He\nwould talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French governess,\nlike an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse: he would say she\nwas French, because--well, she had lived in France so long that she almost\nwas, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away too\nexactly, don't you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her\nfirst in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. He\nmade a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and\nmagic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit\nand exquisite setting. There was something Meredithian about it: it was\nnot quite Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was\ninexpressibly charming. Philip's heart beat quickly. He was so delighted\nwith his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he\ncrawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He thought of\nthe object of his affections. She had the most adorable little nose and\nlarge brown eyes--he would describe her to Hayward--and masses of soft\nbrown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and a\nskin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red\nrose. How old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Her\nlaughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it\nwas the sweetest music he had ever heard.\n\n\"What ARE you thinking about?\"\n\nPhilip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home.\n\n\"I've been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You ARE\nabsent-minded.\"\n\nMiss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise.\n\n\"I thought I'd come and meet you.\"\n\n\"That's awfully nice of you,\" he said.\n\n\"Did I startle you?\"\n\n\"You did a bit,\" he admitted.\n\nHe wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight pages of it.\n\nThe fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening, when\nthey went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked that one\nday more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thought\ndepress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it would be\ndelightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for one in\nLondon. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said it would\nbe very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was\nlooking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred not to be\nhampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowed\nMiss Wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be off.\n\n\"You wouldn't talk like that if you loved me,\" she cried.\n\nHe was taken aback and remained silent.\n\n\"What a fool I've been,\" she muttered.\n\nTo his surprise he saw that she was crying. He had a tender heart, and\nhated to see anyone miserable.\n\n\"Oh, I'm awfully sorry. What have I done? Don't cry.\"\n\n\"Oh, Philip, don't leave me. You don't know what you mean to me. I have\nsuch a wretched life, and you've made me so happy.\"\n\nHe kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone, and he was\nfrightened. It had never occurred to him that she meant what she said\nquite, quite seriously.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry. You know I'm frightfully fond of you. I wish you would\ncome to London.\"\n\n\"You know I can't. Places are almost impossible to get, and I hate English\nlife.\"\n\nAlmost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, he\npressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely flattered him, and he kissed\nher with real passion.\n\nBut a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party at\nthe vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an\nIndian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were very\npretty, one was Philip's age and the other was a year or two younger.\nBeing used to the society of young men (they were full of stories of\nhill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling\nwere in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased with\nthe novelty--the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar's nephew\nwith a certain seriousness--was gay and jolly. Some devil within him\nprompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he was\nthe only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. It\nhappened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was tired of\npat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to\nBlackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested that\nMiss Wilkinson should play against the curate's wife, with the curate as\nher partner; and he would play later with the new-comers. He sat down by\nthe elder Miss O'Connor and said to her in an undertone:\n\n\"We'll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we'll have a jolly\nset afterwards.\"\n\nApparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket,\nand, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain to everyone that\nshe was offended. Philip was annoyed that she should make the fact public.\nThe set was arranged without her, but presently Mrs. Carey called him.\n\n\"Philip, you've hurt Emily's feelings. She's gone to her room and she's\ncrying.\"\n\n\"What about?\"\n\n\"Oh, something about a duffer's set. Do go to her, and say you didn't mean\nto be unkind, there's a good boy.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nHe knocked at Miss Wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer went in. He\nfound her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. He touched her on the\nshoulder.\n\n\"I say, what on earth's the matter?\"\n\n\"Leave me alone. I never want to speak to you again.\"\n\n\"What have I done? I'm awfully sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I didn't\nmean to. I say, do get up.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate that\nstupid game. I only play because I want to play with you.\"\n\nShe got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick look\nin the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a ball and\ndabbed her eyes with it.\n\n\"I've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man--oh, what a fool\nI was--and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How could\nyou be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar girls.\nWe've only got just over a week. Can't you even give me that?\"\n\nPhilip stood over her rather sulkily. He thought her behaviour childish.\nHe was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before strangers.\n\n\"But you know I don't care twopence about either of the O'Connors. Why on\nearth should you think I do?\"\n\nMiss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on her\npowdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white dress did\nnot suit her very well just then. She looked at Philip with hungry,\npassionate eyes.\n\n\"Because you're twenty and so's she,\" she said hoarsely. \"And I'm old.\"\n\nPhilip reddened and looked away. The anguish of her tone made him feel\nstrangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never had\nanything to do with Miss Wilkinson.\n\n\"I don't want to make you unhappy,\" he said awkwardly. \"You'd better go\ndown and look after your friends. They'll wonder what has become of you.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nHe was glad to leave her.\n\nThe quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days\nthat remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of\nnothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson\nto tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast\nhe redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated\nhim: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was\nsilly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased reminding him\nthat he was under a debt of gratitude to her which he could never repay.\nHe was willing to acknowledge this since she made a point of it, but he\ndid not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to\nhim. He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were\nrather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a\nnecessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an\nunkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The Miss O'Connors\nasked them both to tea, and Philip would have liked to go, but Miss\nWilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely to\nherself. It was flattering, but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of\nthe exquisite delicacy of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation\nto fair ladies as he to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their\npassion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed to\nwant a great deal.\n\nPhilip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be\npossessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain\nsatisfaction that she lived in Berlin.\n\n\"You will write to me, won't you? Write to me every day. I want to know\neverything you're doing. You must keep nothing from me.\"\n\n\"I shall be awfully, busy\" he answered. \"I'll write as often as I can.\"\n\nShe flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was embarrassed\nsometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have preferred\nher to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she should give him\nso marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessions\nabout the modesty of the feminine temperament.\n\nAt length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came\ndown to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress of\nblack and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip was\nsilent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit the\ncircumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something\nflippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a\nscene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden the\nnight before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no opportunity\nfor them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after breakfast in\ncase Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs. He did not\nwant Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to\ncatch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did not like Miss\nWilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well and\ncould not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off. Just\nas the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr. Carey.\n\n\"I must kiss you too, Philip,\" she said.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, blushing.\n\nHe stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started, and\nMiss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept\ndisconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct\nsensation of relief.\n\n\"Well, did you see her safely off?\" asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in.\n\n\"Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous.\" Mrs. Carey pointed to the\nsideboard. \"There's a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second post.\"\n\nIt was from Hayward and ran as follows:\n\n\nMy dear boy,\n\nI answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend of\nmine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to\nme, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we\nagreed that it was charming. You wrote from your heart and you do not know\nthe delightful naivete which is in every line. And because you love you\nwrite like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow\nof your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of\nyour emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could have been present unseen\nin that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and\nChloe, amid the flowers. I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of\nyoung love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in\nyour arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er\nconsent--consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I\nenvy you. It is so good to think that your first love should have been\npure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you\nthe Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your\ndying day. You will never again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is\nbest love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is\nyours. I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you\ntold me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is\nthat exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have\nyou sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and\nJuliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss\nthe ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the\nhomage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her.\n                             Yours always,\n                                     G. Etheridge Hayward.\n\n\n\"What damned rot!\" said Philip, when he finished the letter.\n\nMiss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo and\nJuliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put the\nletter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness because\nreality seemed so different from the ideal.\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\n\nA few days later Philip went to London. The curate had recommended rooms\nin Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter at fourteen shillings a\nweek. He reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a funny little old\nwoman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high\ntea for him. Most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a\nsquare table; against one wall was a sofa covered with horsehair, and by\nthe fireplace an arm-chair to match: there was a white antimacassar over\nthe back of it, and on the seat, because the springs were broken, a hard\ncushion.\n\nAfter having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat down\nand tried to read; but he was depressed. The silence in the street made\nhim slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone.\n\nNext day he got up early. He put on his tail-coat and the tall hat which\nhe had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his mind to\nstop at the Stores on his way to the office and buy a new one. When he had\ndone this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked along the\nStrand. The office of Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a little street\noff Chancery Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times. He felt\nthat people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off his hat\nto see whether by chance the label had been left on. When he arrived he\nknocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at his watch he\nfound it was barely half past nine; he supposed he was too early. He went\naway and ten minutes later returned to find an office-boy, with a long\nnose, pimply face, and a Scotch accent, opening the door. Philip asked for\nMr. Herbert Carter. He had not come yet.\n\n\"When will he be here?\"\n\n\"Between ten and half past.\"\n\n\"I'd better wait,\" said Philip.\n\n\"What are you wanting?\" asked the office-boy.\n\nPhilip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner.\n\n\"Well, I'm going to work here if you have no objection.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're the new articled clerk? You'd better come in. Mr.\nGoodworthy'll be here in a while.\"\n\nPhilip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy--he was about the\nsame age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk--look at his foot. He\nflushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. He looked round the\nroom. It was dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were\nthree rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over the\nchimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk\ncame in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone asked\nthe office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was. A whistle\nblew, and Macdougal got up.\n\n\"Mr. Goodworthy's come. He's the managing clerk. Shall I tell him you're\nhere?\"\n\n\"Yes, please,\" said Philip.\n\nThe office-boy went out and in a moment returned.\n\n\"Will you come this way?\"\n\nPhilip followed him across the passage and was shown into a room, small\nand barely furnished, in which a little, thin man was standing with his\nback to the fireplace. He was much below the middle height, but his large\nhead, which seemed to hang loosely on his body, gave him an odd\nungainliness. His features were wide and flattened, and he had prominent,\npale eyes; his thin hair was sandy; he wore whiskers that grew unevenly on\nhis face, and in places where you would have expected the hair to grow\nthickly there was no hair at all. His skin was pasty and yellow. He held\nout his hand to Philip, and when he smiled showed badly decayed teeth. He\nspoke with a patronising and at the same time a timid air, as though he\nsought to assume an importance which he did not feel. He said he hoped\nPhilip would like the work; there was a good deal of drudgery about it,\nbut when you got used to it, it was interesting; and one made money, that\nwas the chief thing, wasn't it? He laughed with his odd mixture of\nsuperiority and shyness.\n\n\"Mr. Carter will be here presently,\" he said. \"He's a little late on\nMonday mornings sometimes. I'll call you when he comes. In the meantime I\nmust give you something to do. Do you know anything about book-keeping or\naccounts?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"I didn't suppose you would. They don't teach you things at school that\nare much use in business, I'm afraid.\" He considered for a moment. \"I\nthink I can find you something to do.\"\n\nHe went into the next room and after a little while came out with a large\ncardboard box. It contained a vast number of letters in great disorder,\nand he told Philip to sort them out and arrange them alphabetically\naccording to the names of the writers.\n\n\"I'll take you to the room in which the articled clerk generally sits.\nThere's a very nice fellow in it. His name is Watson. He's a son of\nWatson, Crag, and Thompson--you know--the brewers. He's spending a year\nwith us to learn business.\"\n\nMr. Goodworthy led Philip through the dingy office, where now six or eight\nclerks were working, into a narrow room behind. It had been made into a\nseparate apartment by a glass partition, and here they found Watson\nsitting back in a chair, reading The Sportsman. He was a large, stout\nyoung man, elegantly dressed, and he looked up as Mr. Goodworthy entered.\nHe asserted his position by calling the managing clerk Goodworthy. The\nmanaging clerk objected to the familiarity, and pointedly called him Mr.\nWatson, but Watson, instead of seeing that it was a rebuke, accepted the\ntitle as a tribute to his gentlemanliness.\n\n\"I see they've scratched Rigoletto,\" he said to Philip, as soon as they\nwere left alone.\n\n\"Have they?\" said Philip, who knew nothing about horse-racing.\n\nHe looked with awe upon Watson's beautiful clothes. His tail-coat fitted\nhim perfectly, and there was a valuable pin artfully stuck in the middle\nof an enormous tie. On the chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy\nand bell-shaped and shiny. Philip felt himself very shabby. Watson began\nto talk of hunting--it was such an infernal bore having to waste one's\ntime in an infernal office, he would only be able to hunt on\nSaturdays--and shooting: he had ripping invitations all over the country\nand of course he had to refuse them. It was infernal luck, but he wasn't\ngoing to put up with it long; he was only in this internal hole for a\nyear, and then he was going into the business, and he would hunt four days\na week and get all the shooting there was.\n\n\"You've got five years of it, haven't you?\" he said, waving his arm round\nthe tiny room.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I daresay I shall see something of you. Carter does our accounts, you\nknow.\"\n\nPhilip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman's condescension. At\nBlackstable they had always looked upon brewing with civil contempt, the\nVicar made little jokes about the beerage, and it was a surprising\nexperience for Philip to discover that Watson was such an important and\nmagnificent fellow. He had been to Winchester and to Oxford, and his\nconversation impressed the fact upon one with frequency. When he\ndiscovered the details of Philip's education his manner became more\npatronising still.\n\n\"Of course, if one doesn't go to a public school those sort of schools are\nthe next best thing, aren't they?\"\n\nPhilip asked about the other men in the office.\n\n\"Oh, I don't bother about them much, you know,\" said Watson. \"Carter's not\na bad sort. We have him to dine now and then. All the rest are awful\nbounders.\"\n\nPresently Watson applied himself to some work he had in hand, and Philip\nset about sorting his letters. Then Mr. Goodworthy came in to say that Mr.\nCarter had arrived. He took Philip into a large room next door to his own.\nThere was a big desk in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey\ncarpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting\nprints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with\nPhilip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military\nman; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and neat, he held\nhimself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was\nvery keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the\nHertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When\nhe was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City\nman, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a\npleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson\nwas a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did Philip hunt?\nPity, THE sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much chance of hunting now,\nhad to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he'd sent him to\nRugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years\nhis son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his\nson, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the\nwork, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the\nprofession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was\nthere. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What\nwas his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that.\n\nPhilip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they\nknew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk\nabout it.\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\n\nAt first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter\ndictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of\naccounts.\n\nMr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would\nhave nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with\ndisfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy\nwho made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the\nmore experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he\ncame to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which\nwere in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to\nadd up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy\nrepeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to\nit. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo.\nHis supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent\nthe evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National\nGallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled\nout of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through\nroom after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a\npicture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same\nthings in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in\nLondon and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to\nspend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of\nexuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the\nheath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he\nliked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a\nformal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of\nfriends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy\nwhose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up\nlate and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy,\ndingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above\nthe locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In\nthe afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too;\nit is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the\nlitter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood\ncheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while\nto go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum\nand his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands.\nHe strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he\nwas tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public\nlibrary in St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people walking about and\nenvied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred\nbecause they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that\nit was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was\nstanding at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a\nconversation; but Philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers and\nanswered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the\nplay was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he\nhurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in\nwhich for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly\ncheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings\nhe spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and\nthen he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.\n\nHe had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at\nHampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening\nWatson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall\ntogether; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of\nthings he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a\nPhilistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson\nobviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself\nat the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the\nacquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt\nfor the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen\npounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit\ncost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in\nthe Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London.\n\n\"I suppose you don't dance,\" said Watson, one day, with a glance at\nPhilip's club-foot.\n\n\"No,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Pity. I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have\nintroduced you to some jolly girls.\"\n\nOnce or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had\nremained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End\ntill he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the\nlittle group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests\narrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window.\nSometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and\nstood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they\nwere in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street\nwith a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man's place. He\nfelt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for\nhis deformity.\n\nThat reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without\nsatisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should\nwrite to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an\naddress, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote\non blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered\nwhy she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her\npassionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left\nhim cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered\nhe excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know\nhow to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or\ndarling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with\nthe word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he\nmade it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was\nconscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of\nvehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he\nlonged to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of\nher red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he\ntold her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of\npost, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he\nnot know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman\ncould give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then,\nbecause he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him\nwith letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post,\nand it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night\nafter night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he\ndid not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live\nwithout him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told\nhim he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and\nPhilip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was\nworried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little\nwhile she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she\nwould arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that\nhe would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend\nChristmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could\nbreak it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it\nwas quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt,\nand she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness.\nHer letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears on\nthe paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry\nand imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her\nanswer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to\nget away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed\nopening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and\npathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did\nnot see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day\nto day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely\nand miserable.\n\n\"I wish to God I'd never had anything to do with her,\" he said.\n\nHe admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young\nman had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring\ncompanies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious\namazement. But after a time Watson's young affections changed, and one day\nhe described the rupture to Philip.\n\n\"I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I'd\nhad enough of her,\" he said.\n\n\"Didn't she make an awful scene?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on that\nsort of thing with me.\"\n\n\"Did she cry?\"\n\n\"She began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said she'd\nbetter hook it.\"\n\nPhilip's sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.\n\n\"And did she hook it?\" he asked smiling.\n\n\"Well, there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?\"\n\nMeanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill all\nthrough November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should\ngo to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should\nget back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and\nhe spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he had\npersuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar\nand barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the\nday; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely.\nHis landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married\ndaughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his\nmeals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey\nand some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothing\nto do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The\nstreets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied\nlook; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and\nhardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself\nmore solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to\nkill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he\ncould not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and\nmaking merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the\nWestminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and\nwent back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent\nthe evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable.\n\nWhen he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson's\naccount of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with\nthem, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a\ndance.\n\n\"I didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there then. By\nGeorge, I was squiffy.\"\n\nAt last Philip asked desperately:\n\n\"How does one get to know people in London?\"\n\nWatson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous\namusement.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get\nto know as many people as you can do with.\"\n\nPhilip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places\nwith him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and\nhe tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life would\nbe if he were Watson.\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\n\nAt the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went to\nvarious places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day monotonously\ncalling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimes\nhe was given long pages of figures to add up. He had never had a head for\nfigures, and he could only do this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at his\nmistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with\nblack hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines on\neach side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he was an\narticled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred guineas and keep\nhimself for five years Philip had the chance of a career; while he, with\nhis experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than a\nclerk at thirty-five shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man,\noppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he\nfancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was better\neducated than himself, and he mocked at Philip's pronunciation; he could\nnot forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he\ntalked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner\nwas merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no\ngift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks were\ngross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he assumed\nan attitude of superiority which he did not feel.\n\n\"Had a bath this morning?\" Thompson said when Philip came to the office\nlate, for his early punctuality had not lasted.\n\n\"Yes, haven't you?\"\n\n\"No, I'm not a gentleman, I'm only a clerk. I have a bath on Saturday\nnight.\"\n\n\"I suppose that's why you're more than usually disagreeable on Monday.\"\n\n\"Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? I'm afraid\nit's asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and Greek.\"\n\n\"Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy.\"\n\nBut Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paid\nand uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr. Goodworthy\ngrew impatient with him.\n\n\"You really ought to be able to do better than this by now,\" he said.\n\"You're not even as smart as the office-boy.\"\n\nPhilip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it humiliated\nhim, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr.\nGoodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. At\nfirst the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew\nirksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began\nto hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that was given\nhim, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper.\nHe made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson was\nimpressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the drawings home, and\nhe came back next day with the praises of his family.\n\n\"I wonder you didn't become a painter,\" he said. \"Only of course there's\nno money in it.\"\n\nIt chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the\nWatsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sent\nfor Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him.\n\n\"Look here, young fellow, I don't care what you do out of office-hours,\nbut I've seen those sketches of yours and they're on office-paper, and Mr.\nGoodworthy tells me you're slack. You won't do any good as a chartered\naccountant unless you look alive. It's a fine profession, and we're\ngetting a very good class of men in it, but it's a profession in which you\nhave to...\" he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not\nfind exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, \"in which you have\nto look alive.\"\n\nPerhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he\ndid not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the\nmoney paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something better\nthan to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill\nsomething which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson got\non his nerves. In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip,\nthough he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. The fact that the\nother clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class a\nlittle higher than their own, was a bond of union. When Philip thought\nthat he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows\nhis heart sank. He had expected wonderful things from London and it had\ngiven him nothing. He hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had no\nidea how he was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by\nhimself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a\nlife. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing\nagain that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from\nthose drab lodgings.\n\nA great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his\nintention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked\nforward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and\nthought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to\ndiscuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in\nabstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill\nwith someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the\nspring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not\nbear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. What\nwas the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the\nworld was beautiful? The letter proceeded.\n\n\n I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln's Inn now\nwith a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world that\nmake life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you sitting in an\noffice over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a\nlittle black bag? My feeling is that one should look upon life as an\nadventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should\ntake risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go to\nParis and study art? I always thought you had talent.\n\n\nThe suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time had\nbeen vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first, but he\ncould not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he\nfound his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. They all\nthought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours,\nMiss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing;\neven strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his sketches. La Vie\nde Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to London\nand when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be\ntransported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them\ndanced and loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he had\nthought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned\nfor romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all. He\nhad a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well\nas anybody else? He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she\nthought he could live on in Paris. She told him that he could manage\neasily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his\nproject. She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would\nbe a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and\nshe besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. But\nPhilip had a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk of\ntaking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities;\nPhilip's entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds.\nHe hesitated.\n\nThen it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he would\nlike to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the Faubourg\nSt. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a year Mr.\nGoodworthy and a clerk went over. The clerk who generally went happened to\nbe ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away.\nMr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be spared, and his\narticles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of\nthe business. Philip was delighted.\n\n\"You'll 'ave to work all day,\" said Mr. Goodworthy, \"but we get our\nevenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris.\" He smiled in a knowing way.\n\"They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so it\ndon't cost one anything. That's the way I like going to Paris, at other\npeople's expense.\"\n\nWhen they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating\nporters his heart leaped.\n\n\"This is the real thing,\" he said to himself.\n\nHe was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sand\ndunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever\nseen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars.\nWhen they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the cobbled\nstreets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing\na new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from\nshouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a\nstout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was an\nold friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room\nwith his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so\ndelicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin\nordinaire, which were set before them.\n\nTo Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles,\nthe capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene. He asked the\nmanager next morning what there was to be seen that was 'thick.' He\nthoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you\nfrom growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and they\nhad dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. His\nlittle eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought\nout the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were specially\narranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come\nto no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged Philip when at\nsome revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out\nto him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. It\nwas a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes\nblinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of the hotel\nand go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde. It\nwas June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. Philip felt\nhis heart go out to the people. Here he thought at last was romance.\n\nThey spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when Philip\nlate at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; he\nwould surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that no\none should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till\nhis year was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in\nAugust, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had no\nintention of returning. But though Philip could force himself to go to the\noffice every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the\nwork. His mind was occupied with the future. After the middle of July\nthere was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he\nhad to go to lectures for his first examination. The time he got in this\nway he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and books\nabout painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari's lives\nof the painters. He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself\nstanding before some great masterpiece and crying: Anch' io son'\npittore. His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he\nhad in him the makings of a great painter.\n\n\"After all, I can only try,\" he said to himself. \"The great thing in life\nis to take risks.\"\n\nAt last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month in\nScotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr.\nGoodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to\nParis, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look\nupon the funny little man with tolerance.\n\n\"You're going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?\" he said to him in the\nevening.\n\nAll day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he\nwould ever sit in that hateful office.\n\n\"Yes, this is the end of my year.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you've not done very well. Mr. Carter's very dissatisfied with\nyou.\"\n\n\"Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter,\" returned Philip\ncheerfully.\n\n\"I don't think you should speak like that, Carey.\"\n\n\"I'm not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn't like\naccountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my\narticles and I could chuck it at the end of a year.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't come to such a decision hastily.\"\n\n\"For ten months I've loathed it all, I've loathed the work, I've loathed\nthe office, I loathe London. I'd rather sweep a crossing than spend my\ndays here.\"\n\n\"Well, I must say, I don't think you're very fitted for accountancy.\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said Philip, holding out his hand. \"I want to thank you for\nyour kindness to me. I'm sorry if I've been troublesome. I knew almost\nfrom the beginning I was no good.\"\n\n\"Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don't know\nwhat you're going to do, but if you're in the neighbourhood at any time\ncome in and see us.\"\n\nPhilip gave a little laugh.\n\n\"I'm afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart\nthat I shall never set eyes on any of you again.\"\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\n\nThe Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which\nPhilip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to\nwhatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on\nnot changing one's mind.\n\n\"You chose to be an accountant of your own free will,\" he said.\n\n\"I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to\ntown. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go\nback to it.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip's idea of being an\nartist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother were\ngentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious profession; it was Bohemian,\ndisreputable, immoral. And then Paris!\n\n\"So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you to\nlive in Paris,\" said the Vicar firmly.\n\nIt was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon flaunted\ntheir vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked.\n\n\"You've been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be\nfalse to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I\nallowed you to expose yourself to such temptation.\"\n\n\"Well, I know I'm not a Christian and I'm beginning to doubt whether I'm\na gentleman,\" said Philip.\n\nThe dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip took\npossession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr. Carey\nproposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. It\nwas clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy he\nmust leave it while he could still get back half the money that had been\npaid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing all\nreserve, said things to wound and irritate.\n\n\"You've got no right to waste my money,\" he said at last. \"After all it's\nmy money, isn't it? I'm not a child. You can't prevent me from going to\nParis if I make up my mind to. You can't force me to go back to London.\"\n\n\"All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't care, I've made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell my\nclothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery.\"\n\nAunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. She saw that Philip\nwas beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his\nanger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more\nabout it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days neither\nPhilip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward for\ninformation about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he got\na reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; she\nfelt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and the\nthought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At length she\nspoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out all his\ndisillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the future.\n\n\"I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can't be a worse\nfailure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint. I\nknow I've got it in me.\"\n\nShe was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so\nstrong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents had\nopposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and\nafter all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life to\nthe glory of God as for a chartered accountant.\n\n\"I'm so afraid of your going to Paris,\" she said piteously. \"It wouldn't\nbe so bad if you studied in London.\"\n\n\"If I'm going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it's only in\nParis that you can get the real thing.\"\n\nAt his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philip\nwas discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of a\nchange. Mr. Nixon answered as follows:\n\n\nDear Mrs. Carey,\n\nI have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you that\nPhilip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is very\nstrongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take\nthe opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally very\ndisappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but you\ncan't make him drink.\n\nYours very sincerely,\n  Albert Nixon.\n\n\nThe letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase his\nobstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some other\nprofession, he suggested his father's calling, medicine, but nothing would\ninduce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris.\n\n\"It's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others,\" retorted\nPhilip acidly.\n\nBut by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a\nhotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and\nenclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip read\nthe letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the first of\nSeptember.\n\n\"But you haven't got any money?\" she said.\n\n\"I'm going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery.\"\n\nHe had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three\nrings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might fetch\na considerable sum.\n\n\"It's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch,\"\nsaid Aunt Louisa.\n\nPhilip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases.\n\n\"I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot,\nand that'll keep me till I'm twenty-one.\"\n\nMrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black\nbonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went to\nPhilip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope.\n\n\"What's this?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's a little present for you,\" she answered, smiling shyly.\n\nHe opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack\nbulging with sovereigns.\n\n\"I couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. It's the money\nI had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.\"\n\nPhilip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.\n\n\"Oh, my dear, I can't take it,\" he said. \"It's most awfully good of you,\nbut I couldn't bear to take it.\"\n\nWhen Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money,\ncarefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense,\nany urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her\nhusband and for Philip. In the course of years it had diminished sadly,\nbut it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his\nwife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the 'nest egg.'\n\n\"Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been extravagant, and\nthere's only that left. But it'll make me so happy if you'll accept it.\"\n\n\"But you'll want it,\" said Philip.\n\n\"No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died\nbefore me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I could\nget at immediately if I wanted it, but I don't think I shall live very\nmuch longer now.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're going to live for\never. I can't possibly spare you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not sorry.\" Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a\nmoment, drying them, she smiled bravely. \"At first, I used to pray to God\nthat He might not take me first, because I didn't want your uncle to be\nleft alone, I didn't want him to have all the suffering, but now I know\nthat it wouldn't mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. He\nwants to live more than I do, I've never been the wife he wanted, and I\ndaresay he'd marry again if anything happened to me. So I should like to\ngo first. You don't think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I\ncouldn't bear it if he went.\"\n\nPhilip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight he\nhad of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It was\nincomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so\nindifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly\nthat in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them\nand loved him humbly all the same.\n\n\"You will take the money, Philip?\" she said, gently stroking his hand. \"I\nknow you can do without it, but it'll give me so much happiness. I've\nalways wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a child of my\nown, and I've loved you as if you were my son. When you were a little boy,\nthough I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill,\nso that I could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and\nthen it was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only chance\nI shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a great artist you\nwon't forget me, but you'll remember that I gave you your start.\"\n\n\"It's very good of you,\" said Philip. \"I'm very grateful.\" A smile came\ninto her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.\n\n\"Oh, I'm so glad.\"\n\n\n\nXL\n\n\nA few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to see Philip off. She\nstood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears. Philip\nwas restless and eager. He wanted to be gone.\n\n\"Kiss me once more,\" she said.\n\nHe leaned out of the window and kissed her. The train started, and she\nstood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her\nhandkerchief till it was out of sight. Her heart was dreadfully heavy, and\nthe few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long. It was\nnatural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy\nand the future beckoned to him; but she--she clenched her teeth so that\nshe should not cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God would\nguard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and good\nfortune.\n\nBut Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in\nhis carriage. He thought only of the future. He had written to Mrs. Otter,\nthe massiere to whom Hayward had given him an introduction, and had in\nhis pocket an invitation to tea on the following day. When he arrived in\nParis he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the\ngay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin\nQuarter. He had taken a room at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which was in a\nshabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient for\nAmitrano's School at which he was going to work. A waiter took his box up\nfive flights of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty from\nunopened windows, the greater part of which was taken up by a large wooden\nbed with a canopy over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the\nwindows of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a\nwashing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is\nconnected with the good King Louis Philippe. The wall-paper was\ndiscoloured with age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on\nit garlands of brown leaves. To Philip the room seemed quaint and\ncharming.\n\nThough it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out, made his\nway into the boulevard and walked towards the light. This led him to the\nstation; and the square in front of it, vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with\nthe yellow trams that seemed to cross it in all directions, made him laugh\naloud with joy. There were cafes all round, and by chance, thirsty and\neager to get a nearer sight of the crowd, Philip installed himself at a\nlittle table outside the Cafe de Versailles. Every other table was taken,\nfor it was a fine night; and Philip looked curiously at the people, here\nlittle family groups, there a knot of men with odd-shaped hats and beards\ntalking loudly and gesticulating; next to him were two men who looked like\npainters with women who Philip hoped were not their lawful wives; behind\nhim he heard Americans loudly arguing on art. His soul was thrilled. He\nsat till very late, tired out but too happy to move, and when at last he\nwent to bed he was wide awake; he listened to the manifold noise of Paris.\n\nNext day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion de Belfort, and in a\nnew street that led out of the Boulevard Raspail found Mrs. Otter. She was\nan insignificant woman of thirty, with a provincial air and a deliberately\nlady-like manner; she introduced him to her mother. He discovered\npresently that she had been studying in Paris for three years and later\nthat she was separated from her husband. She had in her small drawing-room\none or two portraits which she had painted, and to Philip's inexperience\nthey seemed extremely accomplished.\n\n\"I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well as that,\" he said to\nher.\n\n\"Oh, I expect so,\" she replied, not without self-satisfaction. \"You can't\nexpect to do everything all at once, of course.\"\n\nShe was very kind. She gave him the address of a shop where he could get\na portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal.\n\n\"I shall be going to Amitrano's about nine tomorrow, and if you'll be\nthere then I'll see that you get a good place and all that sort of thing.\"\n\nShe asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt that he should not let\nher see how vague he was about the whole matter.\n\n\"Well, first I want to learn to draw,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm so glad to hear you say that. People always want to do things in such\na hurry. I never touched oils till I'd been here for two years, and look\nat the result.\"\n\nShe gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece of\npainting that hung over the piano.\n\n\"And if I were you, I would be very careful about the people you get to\nknow. I wouldn't mix myself up with any foreigners. I'm very careful\nmyself.\"\n\nPhilip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd. He did\nnot know that he particularly wanted to be careful.\n\n\"We live just as we would if we were in England,\" said Mrs. Otter's\nmother, who till then had spoken little. \"When we came here we brought all\nour own furniture over.\"\n\nPhilip looked round the room. It was filled with a massive suite, and at\nthe window were the same sort of white lace curtains which Aunt Louisa put\nup at the vicarage in summer. The piano was draped in Liberty silk and so\nwas the chimney-piece. Mrs. Otter followed his wandering eye.\n\n\"In the evening when we close the shutters one might really feel one was\nin England.\"\n\n\"And we have our meals just as if we were at home,\" added her mother. \"A\nmeat breakfast in the morning and dinner in the middle of the day.\"\n\nWhen he left Mrs. Otter Philip went to buy drawing materials; and next\nmorning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem self-assured, he presented\nhimself at the school. Mrs. Otter was already there, and she came forward\nwith a friendly smile. He had been anxious about the reception he would\nhave as a nouveau, for he had read a good deal of the rough joking to\nwhich a newcomer was exposed at some of the studios; but Mrs. Otter had\nreassured him.\n\n\"Oh, there's nothing like that here,\" she said. \"You see, about half our\nstudents are ladies, and they set a tone to the place.\"\n\nThe studio was large and bare, with gray walls, on which were pinned the\nstudies that had received prizes. A model was sitting in a chair with a\nloose wrap thrown over her, and about a dozen men and women were standing\nabout, some talking and others still working on their sketch. It was the\nfirst rest of the model.\n\n\"You'd better not try anything too difficult at first,\" said Mrs. Otter.\n\"Put your easel here. You'll find that's the easiest pose.\"\n\nPhilip placed an easel where she indicated, and Mrs. Otter introduced him\nto a young woman who sat next to him.\n\n\"Mr. Carey--Miss Price. Mr. Carey's never studied before, you won't mind\nhelping him a little just at first will you?\" Then she turned to the\nmodel. \"La Pose.\"\n\nThe model threw aside the paper she had been reading, La Petite\nRepublique, and sulkily, throwing off her gown, got on to the stand. She\nstood, squarely on both feet with her hands clasped behind her head.\n\n\"It's a stupid pose,\" said Miss Price. \"I can't imagine why they chose\nit.\"\n\nWhen Philip entered, the people in the studio had looked at him curiously,\nand the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now they ceased to pay\nattention to him. Philip, with his beautiful sheet of paper in front of\nhim, stared awkwardly at the model. He did not know how to begin. He had\nnever seen a naked woman before. She was not young and her breasts were\nshrivelled. She had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead\nuntidily, and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss\nPrice's work. She had only been working on it two days, and it looked as\nthough she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from constant rubbing\nout, and to Philip's eyes the figure looked strangely distorted.\n\n\"I should have thought I could do as well as that,\" he said to himself.\n\nHe began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly downwards, but,\nhe could not understand why, he found it infinitely more difficult to draw\na head from the model than to draw one from his imagination. He got into\ndifficulties. He glanced at Miss Price. She was working with vehement\ngravity. Her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious\nlook in her eyes. It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on\nher forehead. She was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold\nhair; it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from\nher forehead and tied in a hurried knot. She had a large face, with broad,\nflat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular\nunhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks. She had an\nunwashed air and you could not help wondering if she slept in her clothes.\nShe was serious and silent. When the next pause came, she stepped back to\nlook at her work.\n\n\"I don't know why I'm having so much bother,\" she said. \"But I mean to get\nit right.\" She turned to Philip. \"How are you getting on?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he answered, with a rueful smile.\n\nShe looked at what he had done.\n\n\"You can't expect to do anything that way. You must take measurements. And\nyou must square out your paper.\"\n\nShe showed him rapidly how to set about the business. Philip was impressed\nby her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm. He was grateful for\nthe hints she gave him and set to work again. Meanwhile other people had\ncome in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio\nfor the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there\ncame in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so\nlong that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip and\nnodded across him to Miss Price.\n\n\"You're very late,\" she said. \"Are you only just up?\"\n\n\"It was such a splendid day, I thought I'd lie in bed and think how\nbeautiful it was out.\"\n\nPhilip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark seriously.\n\n\"That seems a funny thing to do, I should have thought it would be more to\nthe point to get up and enjoy it.\"\n\n\"The way of the humorist is very hard,\" said the young man gravely.\n\nHe did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his canvas; he was working\nin colour, and had sketched in the day before the model who was posing. He\nturned to Philip.\n\n\"Have you just come out from England?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How did you find your way to Amitrano's?\"\n\n\"It was the only school I knew of.\"\n\n\"I hope you haven't come with the idea that you will learn anything here\nwhich will be of the smallest use to you.\"\n\n\"It's the best school in Paris,\" said Miss Price. \"It's the only one where\nthey take art seriously.\"\n\n\"Should art be taken seriously?\" the young man asked; and since Miss Price\nreplied only with a scornful shrug, he added: \"But the point is, all\nschools are bad. They are academical, obviously. Why this is less\ninjurious than most is that the teaching is more incompetent than\nelsewhere. Because you learn nothing....\"\n\n\"But why d'you come here then?\" interrupted Philip.\n\n\"I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price, who is\ncultured, will remember the Latin of that.\"\n\n\"I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr. Clutton,\" said\nMiss Price brusquely.\n\n\"The only way to learn to paint,\" he went on, imperturbable, \"is to take\na studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for yourself.\"\n\n\"That seems a simple thing to do,\" said Philip.\n\n\"It only needs money,\" replied Clutton.\n\nHe began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the corner of his eye. He\nwas long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed to protrude from his\nbody; his elbows were so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the\narms of his shabby coat. His trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on\neach of his boots was a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to\nPhilip's easel.\n\n\"If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I'll just help you a\nlittle,\" she said.\n\n\"Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour,\" said Clutton, looking\nmeditatively at his canvas, \"but she detests me because I have genius.\"\n\nHe spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made what he\nsaid very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh, but Miss Price grew darkly\nred with anger.\n\n\"You're the only person who has ever accused you of genius.\"\n\n\"Also I am the only person whose opinion is of the least value to me.\"\n\nMiss Price began to criticise what Philip had done. She talked glibly of\nanatomy and construction, planes and lines, and of much else which Philip\ndid not understand. She had been at the studio a long time and knew the\nmain points which the masters insisted upon, but though she could show\nwhat was wrong with Philip's work she could not tell him how to put it\nright.\n\n\"It's awfully kind of you to take so much trouble with me,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing,\" she answered, flushing awkwardly. \"People did the same\nfor me when I first came, I'd do it for anyone.\"\n\n\"Miss Price wants to indicate that she is giving you the advantage of her\nknowledge from a sense of duty rather than on account of any charms of\nyour person,\" said Clutton.\n\nMiss Price gave him a furious look, and went back to her own drawing. The\nclock struck twelve, and the model with a cry of relief stepped down from\nthe stand.\n\nMiss Price gathered up her things.\n\n\"Some of us go to Gravier's for lunch,\" she said to Philip, with a look at\nClutton. \"I always go home myself.\"\n\n\"I'll take you to Gravier's if you like,\" said Clutton.\n\nPhilip thanked him and made ready to go. On his way out Mrs. Otter asked\nhim how he had been getting on.\n\n\"Did Fanny Price help you?\" she asked. \"I put you there because I know she\ncan do it if she likes. She's a disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she\ncan't draw herself at all, but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful\nto a newcomer if she cares to take the trouble.\"\n\nOn the way down the street Clutton said to him:\n\n\"You've made an impression on Fanny Price. You'd better look out.\"\n\nPhilip laughed. He had never seen anyone on whom he wished less to make an\nimpression. They came to the cheap little restaurant at which several of\nthe students ate, and Clutton sat down at a table at which three or four\nmen were already seated. For a franc, they got an egg, a plate of meat,\ncheese, and a small bottle of wine. Coffee was extra. They sat on the\npavement, and yellow trams passed up and down the boulevard with a\nceaseless ringing of bells.\n\n\"By the way, what's your name?\" said Clutton, as they took their seats.\n\n\"Carey.\"\n\n\"Allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend, Carey by name,\" said\nClutton gravely. \"Mr. Flanagan, Mr. Lawson.\"\n\nThey laughed and went on with their conversation. They talked of a\nthousand things, and they all talked at once. No one paid the smallest\nattention to anyone else. They talked of the places they had been to in\nthe summer, of studios, of the various schools; they mentioned names which\nwere unfamiliar to Philip, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Pissarro, Degas. Philip\nlistened with all his ears, and though he felt a little out of it, his\nheart leaped with exultation. The time flew. When Clutton got up he said:\n\n\"I expect you'll find me here this evening if you care to come. You'll\nfind this about the best place for getting dyspepsia at the lowest cost in\nthe Quarter.\"\n\n\n\nXLI\n\n\nPhilip walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was not at all like\nthe Paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to do the accounts of\nthe Hotel St. Georges--he thought already of that part of his life with a\nshudder--but reminded him of what he thought a provincial town must be.\nThere was an easy-going air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which\ninvited the mind to day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid\nwhiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt\nhimself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along, staring at the\npeople; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary, workmen with\ntheir broad red sashes and their wide trousers, little soldiers in dingy,\ncharming uniforms. He came presently to the Avenue de l'Observatoire, and\nhe gave a sigh of pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He\ncame to the gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with\nlong ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with\nsatchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The scene was formal\nand dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so exquisitely, that\nnature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric. Philip was enchanted. It\nexcited him to stand on that spot of which he had read so much; it was\nclassic ground to him; and he felt the awe and the delight which some old\ndon might feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of\nSparta.\n\nAs he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself on a bench.\nHe hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her\nuncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but\nhe had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him\nthought it would be polite to speak to her.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" she said, as he came up.\n\n\"Enjoying myself. Aren't you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I don't think one does any\ngood if one works straight through.\"\n\n\"May I sit down for a minute?\" he said.\n\n\"If you want to.\"\n\n\"That doesn't sound very cordial,\" he laughed.\n\n\"I'm not much of a one for saying pretty things.\"\n\nPhilip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette.\n\n\"Did Clutton say anything about my work?\" she asked suddenly.\n\n\"No, I don't think he did,\" said Philip.\n\n\"He's no good, you know. He thinks he's a genius, but he isn't. He's too\nlazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. The\nonly thing is to peg away. If one only makes up one's mind badly enough to\ndo a thing one can't help doing it.\"\n\nShe spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking. She\nwore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite\nclean, and a brown skirt. She had no gloves on, and her hands wanted\nwashing. She was so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to\ntalk to her. He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go.\n\n\"I'll do anything I can for you,\" she said all at once, without reference\nto anything that had gone before. \"I know how hard it is.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" said Philip, then in a moment: \"Won't you come and\nhave tea with me somewhere?\"\n\nShe looked at him quickly and flushed. When she reddened her pasty skin\nacquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had\ngone bad.\n\n\"No, thanks. What d'you think I want tea for? I've only just had lunch.\"\n\n\"I thought it would pass the time,\" said Philip.\n\n\"If you find it long you needn't bother about me, you know. I don't mind\nbeing left alone.\"\n\nAt that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and\nbasque caps. They were young, but both wore beards.\n\n\"I say, are those art-students?\" said Philip. \"They might have stepped out\nof the Vie de Boheme.\"\n\n\"They're Americans,\" said Miss Price scornfully. \"Frenchmen haven't worn\nthings like that for thirty years, but the Americans from the Far West buy\nthose clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive\nin Paris. That's about as near to art as they ever get. But it doesn't\nmatter to them, they've all got money.\"\n\nPhilip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans' costume; he\nthought it showed the romantic spirit. Miss Price asked him the time.\n\n\"I must be getting along to the studio,\" she said. \"Are you going to the\nsketch classes?\"\n\nPhilip did not know anything about them, and she told him that from five\nto six every evening a model sat, from whom anyone who liked could go and\ndraw at the cost of fifty centimes. They had a different model every day,\nand it was very good practice.\n\n\"I don't suppose you're good enough yet for that. You'd better wait a\nbit.\"\n\n\"I don't see why I shouldn't try. I haven't got anything else to do.\"\n\nThey got up and walked to the studio. Philip could not tell from her\nmanner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with her or preferred to walk\nalone. He remained from sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her;\nbut she would not talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious\nmanner.\n\nA man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into which each\nperson as he went in dropped his half franc. The studio was much fuller\nthan it had been in the morning, and there was not the preponderance of\nEnglish and Americans; nor were women there in so large a proportion.\nPhilip felt the assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. It\nwas very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. It was an old man who sat\nthis time, with a vast gray beard, and Philip tried to put into practice\nthe little he had learned in the morning; but he made a poor job of it; he\nrealised that he could not draw nearly as well as he thought. He glanced\nenviously at one or two sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered\nwhether he would ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. The\nhour passed quickly. Not wishing to press himself upon Miss Price he sat\ndown at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed her on his\nway out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on.\n\n\"Not very well,\" he smiled.\n\n\"If you'd condescended to come and sit near me I could have given you some\nhints. I suppose you thought yourself too grand.\"\n\n\"No, it wasn't that. I was afraid you'd think me a nuisance.\"\n\n\"When I do that I'll tell you sharp enough.\"\n\nPhilip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help.\n\n\"Well, tomorrow I'll just force myself upon you.\"\n\n\"I don't mind,\" she answered.\n\nPhilip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till dinner.\nHe was eager to do something characteristic. Absinthe! of course it was\nindicated, and so, sauntering towards the station, he seated himself\noutside a cafe and ordered it. He drank with nausea and satisfaction. He\nfound the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt\nevery inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his\nspirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men\nwere his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier's the table at\nwhich Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he\ncalled out to him. They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup,\na dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip paid\nno attention to what he ate. He took note of the men at the table.\nFlanagan was there again: he was an American, a short, snub-nosed youth\nwith a jolly face and a laughing mouth. He wore a Norfolk jacket of bold\npattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape.\nAt that time impressionism reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory\nover the older schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau,\nand their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas. To appreciate\nthese was still a sign of grace. Whistler was an influence strong with the\nEnglish and his compatriots, and the discerning collected Japanese prints.\nThe old masters were tested by new standards. The esteem in which Raphael\nhad been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men.\nThey offered to give all his works for Velasquez' head of Philip IV in the\nNational Gallery. Philip found that a discussion on art was raging.\nLawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him. He was a thin\nyouth with a freckled face and red hair. He had very bright green eyes. As\nPhilip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly:\n\n\"Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people's pictures. When\nhe painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was charming; when he painted\nRaphaels he was,\" with a scornful shrug, \"Raphael.\"\n\nLawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he was not\nobliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently.\n\n\"Oh, to hell with art!\" he cried. \"Let's get ginny.\"\n\n\"You were ginny last night, Flanagan,\" said Lawson.\n\n\"Nothing to what I mean to be tonight,\" he answered. \"Fancy being in\nPa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time.\" He spoke with a\nbroad Western accent. \"My, it is good to be alive.\" He gathered himself\ntogether and then banged his fist on the table. \"To hell with art, I say.\"\n\n\"You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration,\" said\nClutton severely.\n\nThere was another American at the table. He was dressed like those fine\nfellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg. He had a\nhandsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb\nwith the dashing air of a buccaneer. He had a vast quantity of dark hair\nwhich fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to\nthrow back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of the way. He\nbegan to talk of the Olympia by Manet, which then hung in the\nLuxembourg.\n\n\"I stood in front of it for an hour today, and I tell you it's not a good\npicture.\"\n\nLawson put down his knife and fork. His green eyes flashed fire, he gasped\nwith rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon himself.\n\n\"It's very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored savage,\" he said.\n\"Will you tell us why it isn't a good picture?\"\n\nBefore the American could answer someone else broke in vehemently.\n\n\"D'you mean to say you can look at the painting of that flesh and say it's\nnot good?\"\n\n\"I don't say that. I think the right breast is very well painted.\"\n\n\"The right breast be damned,\" shouted Lawson. \"The whole thing's a miracle\nof painting.\"\n\nHe began to describe in detail the beauties of the picture, but at this\ntable at Gravier's they who spoke at length spoke for their own\nedification. No one listened to him. The American interrupted angrily.\n\n\"You don't mean to say you think the head's good?\"\n\nLawson, white with passion now, began to defend the head; but Clutton, who\nhad been sitting in silence with a look on his face of good-humoured\nscorn, broke in.\n\n\"Give him the head. We don't want the head. It doesn't affect the\npicture.\"\n\n\"All right, I'll give you the head,\" cried Lawson. \"Take the head and be\ndamned to you.\"\n\n\"What about the black line?\" cried the American, triumphantly pushing back\na wisp of hair which nearly fell in his soup. \"You don't see a black line\nround objects in nature.\"\n\n\"Oh, God, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer,\" said\nLawson. \"What has nature got to do with it? No one knows what's in nature\nand what isn't! The world sees nature through the eyes of the artist. Why,\nfor centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended,\nand by Heaven, sir, they were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet\ndiscovered they were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black. If we\nchoose to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the black\nline, and there will be a black line; and if we paint grass red and cows\nblue, it'll see them red and blue, and, by Heaven, they will be red and\nblue.\"\n\n\"To hell with art,\" murmured Flanagan. \"I want to get ginny.\"\n\nLawson took no notice of the interruption.\n\n\"Now look here, when Olympia was shown at the Salon, Zola--amid the\njeers of the Philistines and the hisses of the pompiers, the academicians,\nand the public, Zola said: 'I look forward to the day when Manet's picture\nwill hang in the Louvre opposite the Odalisque of Ingres, and it will\nnot be the Odalisque which will gain by comparison.' It'll be there.\nEvery day I see the time grow nearer. In ten years the Olympia will be\nin the Louvre.\"\n\n\"Never,\" shouted the American, using both hands now with a sudden\ndesperate attempt to get his hair once for all out of the way. \"In ten\nyears that picture will be dead. It's only a fashion of the moment. No\npicture can live that hasn't got something which that picture misses by a\nmillion miles.\"\n\n\"And what is that?\"\n\n\"Great art can't exist without a moral element.\"\n\n\"Oh God!\" cried Lawson furiously. \"I knew it was that. He wants morality.\"\nHe joined his hands and held them towards heaven in supplication. \"Oh,\nChristopher Columbus, Christopher Columbus, what did you do when you\ndiscovered America?\"\n\n\"Ruskin says...\"\n\nBut before he could add another word, Clutton rapped with the handle of\nhis knife imperiously on the table.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose positively\nwrinkled with passion, \"a name has been mentioned which I never thought to\nhear again in decent society. Freedom of speech is all very well, but we\nmust observe the limits of common propriety. You may talk of Bouguereau if\nyou will: there is a cheerful disgustingness in the sound which excites\nlaughter; but let us not sully our chaste lips with the names of J.\nRuskin, G. F. Watts, or E. B. Jones.\"\n\n\"Who was Ruskin anyway?\" asked Flanagan.\n\n\"He was one of the Great Victorians. He was a master of English style.\"\n\n\"Ruskin's style--a thing of shreds and purple patches,\" said Lawson.\n\"Besides, damn the Great Victorians. Whenever I open a paper and see Death\nof a Great Victorian, I thank Heaven there's one more of them gone. Their\nonly talent was longevity, and no artist should be allowed to live after\nhe's forty; by then a man has done his best work, all he does after that\nis repetition. Don't you think it was the greatest luck in the world for\nthem that Keats, Shelley, Bonnington, and Byron died early? What a genius\nwe should think Swinburne if he had perished on the day the first series\nof Poems and Ballads was published!\"\n\nThe suggestion pleased, for no one at the table was more than twenty-four,\nand they threw themselves upon it with gusto. They were unanimous for\nonce. They elaborated. Someone proposed a vast bonfire made out of the\nworks of the Forty Academicians into which the Great Victorians might be\nhurled on their fortieth birthday. The idea was received with acclamation.\nCarlyle and Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B. Jones, Dickens,\nThackeray, they were hurried into the flames; Mr. Gladstone, John Bright,\nand Cobden; there was a moment's discussion about George Meredith, but\nMatthew Arnold and Emerson were given up cheerfully. At last came Walter\nPater.\n\n\"Not Walter Pater,\" murmured Philip.\n\nLawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes and then nodded.\n\n\"You're quite right, Walter Pater is the only justification for Mona Lisa.\nD'you know Cronshaw? He used to know Pater.\"\n\n\"Who's Cronshaw?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Cronshaw's a poet. He lives here. Let's go to the Lilas.\"\n\nLa Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the evening\nafter dinner, and here Cronshaw was invariably to be found between the\nhours of nine at night and two in the morning. But Flanagan had had enough\nof intellectual conversation for one evening, and when Lawson made his\nsuggestion, turned to Philip.\n\n\"Oh gee, let's go where there are girls,\" he said. \"Come to the Gaite\nMontparnasse, and we'll get ginny.\"\n\n\"I'd rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober,\" laughed Philip.\n\n\n\nXLII\n\n\nThere was a general disturbance. Flanagan and two or three more went on to\nthe music-hall, while Philip walked slowly with Clutton and Lawson to the\nCloserie des Lilas.\n\n\"You must go to the Gaite Montparnasse,\" said Lawson to him. \"It's one of\nthe loveliest things in Paris. I'm going to paint it one of these days.\"\n\nPhilip, influenced by Hayward, looked upon music-halls with scornful eyes,\nbut he had reached Paris at a time when their artistic possibilities were\njust discovered. The peculiarities of lighting, the masses of dingy red\nand tarnished gold, the heaviness of the shadows and the decorative lines,\noffered a new theme; and half the studios in the Quarter contained\nsketches made in one or other of the local theatres. Men of letters,\nfollowing in the painters' wake, conspired suddenly to find artistic value\nin the turns; and red-nosed comedians were lauded to the skies for their\nsense of character; fat female singers, who had bawled obscurely for\ntwenty years, were discovered to possess inimitable drollery; there were\nthose who found an aesthetic delight in performing dogs; while others\nexhausted their vocabulary to extol the distinction of conjurers and\ntrick-cyclists. The crowd too, under another influence, was become an\nobject of sympathetic interest. With Hayward, Philip had disdained\nhumanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of one who wraps himself in\nsolitariness and watches with disgust the antics of the vulgar; but\nClutton and Lawson talked of the multitude with enthusiasm. They described\nthe seething throng that filled the various fairs of Paris, the sea of\nfaces, half seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness,\nand the blare of trumpets, the hooting of whistles, the hum of voices.\nWhat they said was new and strange to Philip. They told him about\nCronshaw.\n\n\"Have you ever read any of his work?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Philip.\n\n\"It came out in The Yellow Book.\"\n\nThey looked upon him, as painters often do writers, with contempt because\nhe was a layman, with tolerance because he practised an art, and with awe\nbecause he used a medium in which themselves felt ill-at-ease.\n\n\"He's an extraordinary fellow. You'll find him a bit disappointing at\nfirst, he only comes out at his best when he's drunk.\"\n\n\"And the nuisance is,\" added Clutton, \"that it takes him a devil of a time\nto get drunk.\"\n\nWhen they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have to\ngo in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had a\nmorbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside.\n\n\"He knows everyone worth knowing,\" Lawson explained. \"He knew Pater and\nOscar Wilde, and he knows Mallarme and all those fellows.\"\n\nThe object of their search sat in the most sheltered corner of the cafe,\nwith his coat on and the collar turned up. He wore his hat pressed well\ndown on his forehead so that he should avoid cold air. He was a big man,\nstout but not obese, with a round face, a small moustache, and little,\nrather stupid eyes. His head did not seem quite big enough for his body.\nIt looked like a pea uneasily poised on an egg. He was playing dominoes\nwith a Frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he did\nnot speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the little pile of\nsaucers on the table which indicated the number of drinks he had already\nconsumed. He nodded to Philip when he was introduced to him, and went on\nwith the game. Philip's knowledge of the language was small, but he knew\nenough to tell that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for several\nyears, spoke French execrably.\n\nAt last he leaned back with a smile of triumph.\n\n\"Je vous ai battu,\" he said, with an abominable accent. \"Garcong!\"\n\nHe called the waiter and turned to Philip.\n\n\"Just out from England? See any cricket?\"\n\nPhilip was a little confused at the unexpected question.\n\n\"Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for the last\ntwenty years,\" said Lawson, smiling.\n\nThe Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and Cronshaw, with\nthe lazy enunciation which was one of his peculiarities, began to\ndiscourse on the relative merits of Kent and Lancashire. He told them of\nthe last test match he had seen and described the course of the game\nwicket by wicket.\n\n\"That's the only thing I miss in Paris,\" he said, as he finished the\nbock which the waiter had brought. \"You don't get any cricket.\"\n\nPhilip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anxious to show off one of\nthe celebrities of the Quarter, grew impatient. Cronshaw was taking his\ntime to wake up that evening, though the saucers at his side indicated\nthat he had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton watched\nthe scene with amusement. He fancied there was something of affectation in\nCronshaw's minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise people by\ntalking to them of things that obviously bored them; Clutton threw in a\nquestion.\n\n\"Have you seen Mallarme lately?\"\n\nCronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry over in\nhis mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble table with one of\nthe saucers.\n\n\"Bring my bottle of whiskey,\" he called out. He turned again to Philip. \"I\nkeep my own bottle of whiskey. I can't afford to pay fifty centimes for\nevery thimbleful.\"\n\nThe waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the light.\n\n\"They've been drinking it. Waiter, who's been helping himself to my\nwhiskey?\"\n\n\"Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw.\"\n\n\"I made a mark on it last night, and look at it.\"\n\n\"Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At that rate\nMonsieur wastes his time in making marks.\"\n\nThe waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately. Cronshaw\ngazed at him.\n\n\"If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that\nnobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I'll accept your statement.\"\n\nThis remark, translated literally into the crudest French, sounded very\nfunny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing.\n\n\"Il est impayable,\" she murmured.\n\nCronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout,\nmatronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. She\nshrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"Fear not, madam,\" he said heavily. \"I have passed the age when I am\ntempted by forty-five and gratitude.\"\n\nHe poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. He\nwiped his mouth with the back of his hand.\n\n\"He talked very well.\"\n\nLawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw's remark was an answer to the\nquestion about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesday\nevenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and\ndiscoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him.\nCronshaw had evidently been there lately.\n\n\"He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked about art as\nthough it were the most important thing in the world.\"\n\n\"If it isn't, what are we here for?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"What you're here for I don't know. It is no business of mine. But art is\na luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the\npropagation of their species. It is only when these instincts are\nsatisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment\nwhich is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets.\"\n\nCronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty years\nthe problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he\nloved conversation because it made him thirsty.\n\nThen he said: \"I wrote a poem yesterday.\"\n\nWithout being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythm\nwith an extended forefinger. It was possibly a very fine poem, but at that\nmoment a young woman came in. She had scarlet lips, and it was plain that\nthe vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she\nhad blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold\nblue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. It was\nfantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion\nmade popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip's eyes wandered to her, and\nCronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him\nindulgently.\n\n\"You were not listening,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh yes, I was.\"\n\n\"I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the\nstatement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect and applaud your\nindifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretricious\ncharms of this young person.\"\n\nShe passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took her arm.\n\n\"Come and sit by my side, dear child, and let us play the divine comedy of\nlove.\"\n\n\"Fichez-moi la paix,\" she said, and pushing him on one side continued\nher perambulation.\n\n\"Art,\" he continued, with a wave of the hand, \"is merely the refuge which\nthe ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women,\nto escape the tediousness of life.\"\n\nCronshaw filled his glass again, and began to talk at length. He spoke\nwith rotund delivery. He chose his words carefully. He mingled wisdom and\nnonsense in the most astounding manner, gravely making fun of his hearers\nat one moment, and at the next playfully giving them sound advice. He\ntalked of art, and literature, and life. He was by turns devout and\nobscene, merry and lachrymose. He grew remarkably drunk, and then he began\nto recite poetry, his own and Milton's, his own and Shelley's, his own and\nKit Marlowe's.\n\nAt last Lawson, exhausted, got up to go home.\n\n\"I shall go too,\" said Philip.\n\nClutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening, with a\nsardonic smile on his lips, to Cronshaw's maunderings. Lawson accompanied\nPhilip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. But when Philip got to\nbed he could not sleep. All these new ideas that had been flung before him\ncarelessly seethed in his brain. He was tremendously excited. He felt in\nhimself great powers. He had never before been so self-confident.\n\n\"I know I shall be a great artist,\" he said to himself. \"I feel it in me.\"\n\nA thrill passed through him as another thought came, but even to himself\nhe would not put it into words:\n\n\"By George, I believe I've got genius.\"\n\nHe was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass of\nbeer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than\nalcohol.\n\n\n\nXLIII\n\nOn Tuesdays and Fridays masters spent the morning at Amitrano's,\ncriticising the work done. In France the painter earns little unless he\npaints portraits and is patronised by rich Americans; and men of\nreputation are glad to increase their incomes by spending two or three\nhours once a week at one of the numerous studios where art is taught.\nTuesday was the day upon which Michel Rollin came to Amitrano's. He was an\nelderly man, with a white beard and a florid complexion, who had painted\na number of decorations for the State, but these were an object of\nderision to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of Ingres,\nimpervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with that tas de\nfarceurs whose names were Manet, Degas, Monet, and Sisley; but he was an\nexcellent teacher, helpful, polite, and encouraging. Foinet, on the other\nhand, who visited the studio on Fridays, was a difficult man to get on\nwith. He was a small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air,\nan untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his tone\nsarcastic. He had had pictures bought by the Luxembourg, and at\ntwenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his talent was due to\nyouth rather than to personality, and for twenty years he had done nothing\nbut repeat the landscape which had brought him his early success. When he\nwas reproached with monotony, he answered:\n\n\"Corot only painted one thing. Why shouldn't I?\"\n\nHe was envious of everyone else's success, and had a peculiar, personal\nloathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his own failure as due\nto the mad fashion which had attracted the public, sale bete, to their\nworks. The genial disdain of Michel Rollin, who called them impostors, was\nanswered by him with vituperation, of which crapule and canaille were\nthe least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their private\nlives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and obscene detail,\nattacked the legitimacy of their births and the purity of their conjugal\nrelations: he used an Oriental imagery and an Oriental emphasis to\naccentuate his ribald scorn. Nor did he conceal his contempt for the\nstudents whose work he examined. By them he was hated and feared; the\nwomen by his brutal sarcasm he reduced often to tears, which again aroused\nhis ridicule; and he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protests\nof those who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there could\nbe no doubt that he was one of the best masters in Paris. Sometimes the\nold model who kept the school ventured to remonstrate with him, but his\nexpostulations quickly gave way before the violent insolence of the\npainter to abject apologies.\n\nIt was Foinet with whom Philip first came in contact. He was already in\nthe studio when Philip arrived. He went round from easel to easel, with\nMrs. Otter, the massiere, by his side to interpret his remarks for the\nbenefit of those who could not understand French. Fanny Price, sitting\nnext to Philip, was working feverishly. Her face was sallow with\nnervousness, and every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on her\nblouse; for they were hot with anxiety. Suddenly she turned to Philip with\nan anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown.\n\n\"D'you think it's good?\" she asked, nodding at her drawing.\n\nPhilip got up and looked at it. He was astounded; he felt she must have no\neye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of drawing.\n\n\"I wish I could draw half as well myself,\" he answered.\n\n\"You can't expect to, you've only just come. It's a bit too much to expect\nthat you should draw as well as I do. I've been here two years.\"\n\nFanny Price puzzled Philip. Her conceit was stupendous. Philip had already\ndiscovered that everyone in the studio cordially disliked her; and it was\nno wonder, for she seemed to go out of her way to wound people.\n\n\"I complained to Mrs. Otter about Foinet,\" she said now. \"The last two\nweeks he hasn't looked at my drawings. He spends about half an hour on\nMrs. Otter because she's the massiere. After all I pay as much as\nanybody else, and I suppose my money's as good as theirs. I don't see why\nI shouldn't get as much attention as anybody else.\"\n\nShe took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with a groan.\n\n\"I can't do any more now. I'm so frightfully nervous.\"\n\nShe looked at Foinet, who was coming towards them with Mrs. Otter. Mrs.\nOtter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an air of importance.\nFoinet sat down at the easel of an untidy little Englishwoman called Ruth\nChalice. She had the fine black eyes, languid but passionate, the thin\nface, ascetic but sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under the\ninfluence of Burne-Jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies in\nChelsea. Foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much to her, but\nwith quick, determined strokes of her charcoal pointed out her errors.\nMiss Chalice beamed with pleasure when he rose. He came to Clutton, and by\nthis time Philip was nervous too but Mrs. Otter had promised to make\nthings easy for him. Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton's work,\nbiting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas\nthe little piece of skin which he had bitten off.\n\n\"That's a fine line,\" he said at last, indicating with his thumb what\npleased him. \"You're beginning to learn to draw.\"\n\nClutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of\nsardonic indifference to the world's opinion.\n\n\"I'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent.\"\n\nMrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see\nanything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into\ntechnical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton did\nnot say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt with\nsatisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of\nthem listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinet\ngot up and came to Philip.\n\n\"He only arrived two days ago,\" Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. \"He's a\nbeginner. He's never studied before.\"\n\n\"Ca se voit,\" the master said. \"One sees that.\"\n\nHe passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him:\n\n\"This is the young lady I told you about.\"\n\nHe looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice\ngrew more rasping.\n\n\"It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You have\nbeen complaining to the massiere. Well, show me this work to which you\nwish me to give attention.\"\n\nFanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of\na strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on which\nshe had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down.\n\n\"Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it is\ngood? It isn't. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn't. Do\nyou wish me to say it has merit? It hasn't. Do you wish me to show you\nwhat is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to\ndo with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now?\"\n\nMiss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all this\nbefore Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and could\nunderstand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words.\n\n\"He's got no right to treat me like that. My money's as good as anyone\nelse's. I pay him to teach me. That's not teaching me.\"\n\n\"What does she say? What does she say?\" asked Foinet.\n\nMrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable\nFrench.\n\n\"Je vous paye pour m'apprendre.\"\n\nHis eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist.\n\n\"Mais, nom de Dieu, I can't teach you. I could more easily teach a\ncamel.\" He turned to Mrs. Otter. \"Ask her, does she do this for amusement,\nor does she expect to earn money by it?\"\n\n\"I'm going to earn my living as an artist,\" Miss Price answered.\n\n\"Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would\nnot matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets\nin these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long\nhave you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better\nthan you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt.\nYou're more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as\na painter. Look.\"\n\nHe seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper.\nHe cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and\nspoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom.\n\n\"Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it's grotesque. I\ntell you a child of five. You see, she's not standing on her legs. That\nfoot!\"\n\nWith each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing\nupon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was\nunrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down\nthe charcoal and stood up.\n\n\"Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking.\" He looked at his watch.\n\"It's twelve. A la semaine prochaine, messieurs.\"\n\nMiss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after the\nothers to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but:\n\n\"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!\"\n\nShe turned on him savagely.\n\n\"Is that what you're waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I'll ask\nfor it. Please get out of my way.\"\n\nShe walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the\nshoulders, limped along to Gravier's for luncheon.\n\n\"It served her right,\" said Lawson, when Philip told him what had\nhappened. \"Ill-tempered slut.\"\n\nLawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never\nwent to the studio when Foinet was coming.\n\n\"I don't want other people's opinion of my work,\" he said. \"I know myself\nif it's good or bad.\"\n\n\"You mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your work,\"\nanswered Clutton dryly.\n\nIn the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the\npictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her\naccustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his\nwell-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had\nnot caught sight of her. But she got up at once and came towards him.\n\n\"Are you trying to cut me?\" she said.\n\n\"No, of course not. I thought perhaps you didn't want to be spoken to.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I've heard so much about it.\"\n\n\"Would you like me to come with you? I know the Luxembourg rather well. I\ncould show you one or two good things.\"\n\nHe understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, she\nmade this offer as amends.\n\n\"It's awfully kind of you. I should like it very much.\"\n\n\"You needn't say yes if you'd rather go alone,\" she said suspiciously.\n\n\"I wouldn't.\"\n\nThey walked towards the gallery. Caillebotte's collection had lately been\nplaced on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to\nexamine at his ease the works of the impressionists. Till then it had been\npossible to see them only at Durand-Ruel's shop in the Rue Lafitte (and\nthe dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter\nan attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest\nstudent whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it\nwas not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where you\nmight see pictures of world-wide reputation. Miss Price led Philip\nstraight up to Manet's Olympia. He looked at it in astonished silence.\n\n\"Do you like it?\" asked Miss Price.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he answered helplessly.\n\n\"You can take it from me that it's the best thing in the gallery except\nperhaps Whistler's portrait of his mother.\"\n\nShe gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took\nhim to a picture representing a railway-station.\n\n\"Look, here's a Monet,\" she said. \"It's the Gare St. Lazare.\"\n\n\"But the railway lines aren't parallel,\" said Philip.\n\n\"What does that matter?\" she asked, with a haughty air.\n\nPhilip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked up the glib chatter\nof the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extent\nof her knowledge. She proceeded to explain the pictures to him,\nsuperciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters\nhad attempted and what he must look for. She talked with much\ngesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new,\nlistened with profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshipped\nWatts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the affected\ndrawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities.\nTheir vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay\nthe titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions\nof art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here\nwas something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the\ncontemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a\nhigher life. He was puzzled.\n\nAt last he said: \"You know, I'm simply dead. I don't think I can absorb\nanything more profitably. Let's go and sit down on one of the benches.\"\n\n\"It's better not to take too much art at a time,\" Miss Price answered.\n\nWhen they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken.\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" she said, a little ungraciously. \"I do it because\nI enjoy it. We'll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you like, and then I'll\ntake you to Durand-Ruel's.\"\n\n\"You're really awfully good to me.\"\n\n\"You don't think me such a beast as the most of them do.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" he smiled.\n\n\"They think they'll drive me away from the studio; but they won't; I shall\nstay there just exactly as long as it suits me. All that this morning, it\nwas Lucy Otter's doing, I know it was. She always has hated me. She\nthought after that I'd take myself off. I daresay she'd like me to go.\nShe's afraid I know too much about her.\"\n\nMiss Price told him a long, involved story, which made out that Mrs.\nOtter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had scabrous intrigues.\nThen she talked of Ruth Chalice, the girl whom Foinet had praised that\nmorning.\n\n\"She's been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She's nothing\nbetter than a street-walker. And she's dirty. She hasn't had a bath for a\nmonth. I know it for a fact.\"\n\nPhilip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various rumours\nwere in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was ridiculous to suppose\nthat Mrs. Otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidly\nvirtuous. The woman walking by his side with her malignant lying\npositively horrified him.\n\n\"I don't care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know I've got\nit in me. I feel I'm an artist. I'd sooner kill myself than give it up.\nOh, I shan't be the first they've all laughed at in the schools and then\nhe's turned out the only genius of the lot. Art's the only thing I care\nfor, I'm willing to give my whole life to it. It's only a question of\nsticking to it and pegging away.\"\n\nShe found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her\nown estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that his\nfriend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he\ncouldn't compose a figure to save his life. And Lawson:\n\n\"Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He's so afraid of\nFoinet that he won't let him see his work. After all, I don't funk it, do\nI? I don't care what Foinet says to me, I know I'm a real artist.\"\n\nThey reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief\nPhilip left her.\n\n\n\nXLIV\n\n\nBut notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered to\ntake him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. He\nlooked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till\nhe knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater has added\nbeauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated\nto Miss Price.\n\n\"That's all literature,\" she said, a little contemptuously. \"You must get\naway from that.\"\n\nShe showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about\nthem. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus.\n\n\"When you feel the beauty of that,\" she said, \"you'll know something about\npainting.\"\n\nShe showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price was\na peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished,\nand attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She was\ndesperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing in\nthe Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny,\nand urbane, like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed:\n\n\"I say, how jolly! Do let's stop here a minute.\"\n\nShe said, indifferently: \"Yes, it's all right. But we've come here to look\nat pictures.\"\n\nThe autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towards\nmid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the Louvre, he felt inclined\nto cry like Flanagan: To hell with art.\n\n\"I say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the Boul' Mich' and\nhave a snack together, shall we?\" he suggested.\n\nMiss Price gave him a suspicious look.\n\n\"I've got my lunch waiting for me at home,\" she answered.\n\n\"That doesn't matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you a\nlunch.\"\n\n\"I don't know why you want to.\"\n\n\"It would give me pleasure,\" he replied, smiling.\n\nThey crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel\nthere was a restaurant.\n\n\"Let's go in there.\"\n\n\"No, I won't go there, it looks too expensive.\"\n\nShe walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few steps\nbrought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already\nlunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced in\nlarge white letters: Dejeuner 1.25, vin compris.\n\n\"We couldn't have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite all\nright.\"\n\nThey sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was the\nfirst article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed with delight upon the\npassers-by. His heart went out to them. He was tired but very happy.\n\n\"I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn't he ripping!\"\n\nHe glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she was looking\ndown at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavy\ntears were rolling down her cheeks.\n\n\"What on earth's the matter?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once,\" she answered.\n\nHe was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came.\nHe divided it in two and they began to eat. Philip did his best to talk of\nindifferent things, and it seemed as though Miss Price were making an\neffort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a\nsuccess. Philip was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate took\nhis appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beast\nin a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the plate\nwith pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wish\nto lose a single drop of gravy. They had Camembert cheese, and it\ndisgusted Philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that was\ngiven her. She could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving.\n\nMiss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day with\nfriendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not be\nsulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she could\nnot draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constant\nsuggestions helped his progress. Mrs. Otter was useful to him too, and\nsometimes Miss Chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glib\nloquacity of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hated\nhim to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked her\nhelp after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse with\nbrutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson, Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed him\nabout her.\n\n\"You be careful, my lad,\" they said, \"she's in love with you.\"\n\n\"Oh, what nonsense,\" he laughed.\n\nThe thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was preposterous.\nIt made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggled\nhair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained and\nragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but\nshe might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and\nthread to make her skirt tidy.\n\nPhilip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown in\ncontact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed so\nlong ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interest\nin humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticise. He found it\ndifficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for three\nmonths than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impression\nat the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great\nthings, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going\nto do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. He had worked at several\nstudios before Amitrano's, at Julian's, the Beaux Arts, and MacPherson's,\nand was remaining longer at Amitrano's than anywhere because he found\nhimself more left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlike\nmost of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave\nadvice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue Campagne\nPremiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room, he had wonderful\npictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced to\nexhibit them. He could not afford a model but painted still life, and\nLawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was a\nmasterpiece. He was fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quite\nfully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhaps\na part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, a\nglass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it,\ndestroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselves\nto see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a single\npicture to show. In Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else\nhad heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up\npainting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. He was\nturning his back on the impressionists and working out for himself\npainfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. Philip\nfelt in him something strangely original.\n\nAt Gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or at\nthe Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He sat\nquietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when\nthe opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was\nmost cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his\nsarcasm. He seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the\none or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered whether\nthere was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him,\nthe pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no more\nthan an effective mask which covered nothing.\n\nWith Lawson on the other hand Philip soon grew intimate. He had a variety\nof interests which made him an agreeable companion. He read more than most\nof the students and though his income was small, loved to buy books. He\nlent them willingly; and Philip became acquainted with Flaubert and\nBalzac, with Verlaine, Heredia, and Villiers de l'Isle Adam. They went to\nplays together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opera Comique. There\nwas the Odeon quite near them, and Philip soon shared his friend's passion\nfor the tragedians of Louis XIV and the sonorous Alexandrine. In the Rue\nTaitbout were the Concerts Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they\ncould hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it was\nquite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was\ncrowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in their\nyoung enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they went to the Bal\nBullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied them. His excitability\nand his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. He was an excellent dancer,\nand before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing round\nwith some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made.\n\nThe desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of the\nparaphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave consideration in the\neyes of one's fellows. It was something to boast about. But the difficulty\nwas that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though\nthey argued that French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two\nthen one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to\ntake that view of the circumstances. They had to content themselves for\nthe most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection\nfrom painters of more settled respectability than their own. It was\nextraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson would\nbecome acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for\ntwenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at\nlength to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the\ntime fixed. He would come to Gravier's very late, ill-tempered, and\nexclaim:\n\n\"Confound it, another rabbit! I don't know why it is they don't like me.\nI suppose it's because I don't speak French well, or my red hair. It's too\nsickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold of\nanyone.\"\n\n\"You don't go the right way to work,\" said Flanagan.\n\nHe had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though they\ntook leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge\nthat he did not altogether lie. But he sought no permanent arrangement. He\nonly had two years in Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come\nand study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period\nhe was to return to Seattle and go into his father's business. He had made\nup his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded\nvariety rather than duration in his love affairs.\n\n\"I don't know how you get hold of them,\" said Lawson furiously.\n\n\"There's no difficulty about that, sonny,\" answered Flanagan. \"You just go\nright in. The difficulty is to get rid of them. That's where you want\ntact.\"\n\nPhilip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the\nplays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the\ndesire for female society. He thought there would be plenty of time for\nthat when he could speak French more glibly.\n\nIt was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and during\nhis first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had\nwritten to him just before he left Blackstable. When another came, knowing\nit would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for\nthem, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did\nnot run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a\ndrawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked at the\nunopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson had\nsuffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probably\ngot over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. It suggested\nitself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions.\nThese did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his\nmind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had not\nwritten for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. He\nmade up his mind not to read the letter.\n\n\"I daresay she won't write again,\" he said to himself. \"She can't help\nseeing the thing's over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother;\nshe ought to have known better.\"\n\nFor an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude was\nobviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of\ndissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did not\nwrite again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paris\nto make him ridiculous before his friends. In a little while he clean\nforgot her.\n\nMeanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with which at\nfirst he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed to\nadmiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the\nrest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph of\na drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia.\nThey were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he could\ncontemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positively\nthat there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt a\nreal thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt's Disciples at Emmaus or\nVelasquez' Lady with the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name,\nbut by that she was distinguished at Gravier's to emphasise the picture's\nbeauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter's\nappearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside his\nbowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on\ncoming to Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat,\na flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked along the\nBoulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and by\nvirtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. He\nwas letting his hair grow, and it was only because Nature is unkind and\nhas no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt\na beard.\n\n\n\nXLV\n\n\nPhilip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was\nCronshaw's. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and even\nClutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the terms\nhe had insensibly acquired from the older man. It was his ideas that they\nbandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments.\nThey made up for the respect with which unconsciously they treated him by\nlaughing at his foibles and lamenting his vices.\n\n\"Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good,\" they said. \"He's\nquite hopeless.\"\n\nThey prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; and\nthough, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, they\npatronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as a\nfeather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there to\nbe particularly wonderful. Cronshaw never came to Gravier's. For the last\nfour years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only\nLawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of the\nmost dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands Augustins: Lawson described\nwith gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter.\n\n\"And the stink nearly blew your head off.\"\n\n\"Not at dinner, Lawson,\" expostulated one of the others.\n\nBut he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque details\nof the odours which met his nostril. With a fierce delight in his own\nrealism he described the woman who had opened the door for him. She was\ndark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always on\nthe point of coming down. She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets.\nWith her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she\nreminded you of the Bohemienne in the Louvre by Franz Hals. She had a\nflaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. A scrubby, unwashed\nbaby was playing on the floor. It was known that the slut deceived\nCronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was a\nmystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table\nthat Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty could\nally himself to such a creature. But he seemed to revel in the coarseness\nof her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the\ngutter. He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge.\nCronshaw was very poor. He earned a bare subsistence by writing on the\nexhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a\ncertain amount of translating. He had been on the staff of an English\npaper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still however\ndid odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel Drouot or the revues at\nmusic-halls. The life of Paris had got into his bones, and he would not\nchange it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any\nother in the world. He remained there all through the year, even in summer\nwhen everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within a\nmile of the Boulevard St. Michel. But the curious thing was that he had\nnever learnt to speak French passably, and he kept in his shabby clothes\nbought at La Belle Jardiniere an ineradicably English appearance.\n\nHe was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a half\nago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar.\n\n\"I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds,\" he said himself. \"What\nI want is a patron. I should have published my poems by subscription and\ndedicated them to a nobleman. I long to compose rhymed couplets upon the\npoodle of a countess. My soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the\nconversation of bishops.\"\n\nHe quoted the romantic Rolla,\n\n\"Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux.\"\n\nHe liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to achieve\nthe difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and not\ntoo much to prevent monologue. Philip was captivated. He did not realise\nthat little that Cronshaw said was new. His personality in conversation\nhad a curious power. He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner\nof putting things which was irresistible to youth. All he said seemed to\nexcite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip would walk to\nand from one another's hotels, discussing some point which a chance word\nof Cronshaw had suggested. It was disconcerting to Philip, who had a\nyouthful eagerness for results, that Cronshaw's poetry hardly came up to\nexpectation. It had never been published in a volume, but most of it had\nappeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion Cronshaw\nbrought down a bundle of pages torn out of The Yellow Book, The\nSaturday Review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem. Philip\nwas taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of Henley or\nof Swinburne. It needed the splendour of Cronshaw's delivery to make them\npersonal. He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who carelessly\nrepeated his words; and next time Philip went to the Closerie des Lilas\nthe poet turned to him with his sleek smile:\n\n\"I hear you don't think much of my verses.\"\n\nPhilip was embarrassed.\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" he answered. \"I enjoyed reading them very\nmuch.\"\n\n\"Do not attempt to spare my feelings,\" returned Cronshaw, with a wave of\nhis fat hand. \"I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical\nworks. Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. My aim\nis to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from\neach moment what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as a\ngraceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to\nexistence. And as for posterity--damn posterity.\"\n\nPhilip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in life had\nproduced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked at him meditatively\nand filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes.\n\n\"You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poor\nand live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with\nhair-dressers and garcons de cafe; I translate wretched books for the\nBritish public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which\ndeserve not even to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of\nlife?\"\n\n\"I say, that's rather a difficult question. Won't you give the answer\nyourself?\"\n\n\"No, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. But what do\nyou suppose you are in the world for?\"\n\nPhilip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before\nreplying.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know: I suppose to do one's duty, and make the best possible\nuse of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other people.\"\n\n\"In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Christianity.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't,\" said Philip indignantly. \"It has nothing to do with\nChristianity. It's just abstract morality.\"\n\n\"But there's no such thing as abstract morality.\"\n\n\"In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse\nbehind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that I\nshould return it to you? It's not the fear of the police.\"\n\n\"It's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you are\nvirtuous.\"\n\n\"But I believe in neither.\"\n\n\"That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative.\nYou have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was\nbased upon it. To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there is\na God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty can\nhardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I\ndon't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or\nnot.\"\n\n\"But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me,\" said\nPhilip.\n\n\"Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police.\"\n\n\"It's a thousand to one that the police would never find out.\"\n\n\"My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of the\npolice has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my concierge would not\nhesitate for a moment. You answer that she belongs to the criminal\nclasses; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice.\"\n\n\"But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decency\nand everything,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Have you ever committed a sin?\"\n\n\"I don't know, I suppose so,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never committed\na sin.\"\n\nCronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat\nwell down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes,\nlooked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh.\n\n\"Have you never done anything you regret?\"\n\n\"How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?\" asked Cronshaw in\nreturn.\n\n\"But that's fatalism.\"\n\n\"The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that\nI am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an\naction is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from\nall eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have\nprevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if\nit was bad I can accept no censure.\"\n\n\"My brain reels,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Have some whiskey,\" returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. \"There's\nnothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted\nif you insist upon drinking beer.\"\n\nPhilip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:\n\n\"You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs\nconversation. But when I speak of good and bad...\" Philip saw he was\ntaking up the thread of his discourse, \"I speak conventionally. I attach\nno meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions\nand ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice\nand virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame:\nI accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world.\"\n\n\"But there are one or two other people in the world,\" objected Philip.\n\n\"I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities.\nRound each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the\ncentre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my\npower. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are\ngregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of\nforce, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion\n(that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on\nthe other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might\nagainst might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling,\nsince in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against\nthe tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws\nbecause I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice,\nI only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me\nand, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the\narmy which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with\nsociety: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws\nfor its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me:\nit has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I\nwill accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as\npunishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society\ntempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my\nfellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and\nI can do very well without riches.\"\n\n\"But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once.\"\n\n\"I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take\nadvantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain\nrewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience.\"\n\n\"It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things,\" said Philip.\n\n\"But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for\nselfish reasons?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow older that\nthe first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is\nto recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demand\nunselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should\nsacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled\nto the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from\nyour fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them\nmore charitably. Men seek but one thing in life--their pleasure.\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" cried Philip.\n\nCronshaw chuckled.\n\n\"You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your\nChristianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of\nvalues; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a\nlittle thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness.\nYou think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who\nmanufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small\nmeans of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of\nhappiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind\nwanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of\npleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim\nat happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of\nyour virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when\nthey are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he\nfinds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in\nhelping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for\nsociety he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that\nyou give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure\nthat I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you,\nneither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.\"\n\n\"But have you never known people do things they didn't want to instead of\nthings they did?\"\n\n\"No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept\nan immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure. The objection is as\nfoolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept an\nimmediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because they\nexpect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory,\nbut their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are\npuzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of\nthe senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he\nlikes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It\nis a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to\npleasure the human race would have long since become extinct.\"\n\n\"But if all that is true,\" cried Philip, \"what is the use of anything? If\nyou take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the\nworld?\"\n\n\"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer,\" smiled Cronshaw.\n\nHe pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe,\nand, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, itinerant\nvendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday\nevening, and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and in\nthat atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with\nhumanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in\nEuropean, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each\nwore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age,\nwith a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face\ndeeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw\nand Philip.\n\n\"Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet,\" said Cronshaw impressively.\n\nThe elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows.\nWith a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he\nshowed a pornographic picture.\n\n\"Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from far\nBagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth,\ndo I see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories\nto her lord?\"\n\nThe pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of\nwhat Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box.\n\n\"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms,\" quoth Cronshaw. \"For I\nwould point a moral and adorn a tale.\"\n\nThe Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and\ngrotesque.\n\n\"Thirty-five francs,\" he said.\n\n\"O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and those\ncolours were never made in the vats of Bokhara.\"\n\n\"Twenty-five francs,\" smiled the pedlar obsequiously.\n\n\"Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham the place\nof my birth.\"\n\n\"Fifteen francs,\" cringed the bearded man.\n\n\"Get thee gone, fellow,\" said Cronshaw. \"May wild asses defile the grave\nof thy maternal grandmother.\"\n\nImperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine passed with his wares to\nanother table. Cronshaw turned to Philip.\n\n\"Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see Persian\ncarpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy\nof which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and\nthe sensual beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of\nOmar; but presently you will see more. You were asking just now what was\nthe meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of\nthese days the answer will come to you.\"\n\n\"You are cryptic,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I am drunk,\" answered Cronshaw.\n\n\n\nXLVI\n\n\nPhilip did not find living in Paris as cheap as he had been led to believe\nand by February had spent most of the money with which he started. He was\ntoo proud to appeal to his guardian, nor did he wish Aunt Louisa to know\nthat his circumstances were straitened, since he was certain she would\nmake an effort to send him something from her own pocket, and he knew how\nlittle she could afford to. In three months he would attain his majority\nand come into possession of his small fortune. He tided over the interval\nby selling the few trinkets which he had inherited from his father.\n\nAt about this time Lawson suggested that they should take a small studio\nwhich was vacant in one of the streets that led out of the Boulevard\nRaspail. It was very cheap. It had a room attached, which they could use\nas a bed-room; and since Philip was at the school every morning Lawson\ncould have the undisturbed use of the studio then; Lawson, after wandering\nfrom school to school, had come to the conclusion that he could work best\nalone, and proposed to get a model in three or four days a week. At first\nPhilip hesitated on account of the expense, but they reckoned it out; and\nit seemed (they were so anxious to have a studio of their own that they\ncalculated pragmatically) that the cost would not be much greater than\nthat of living in a hotel. Though the rent and the cleaning by the\nconcierge would come to a little more, they would save on the petit\ndejeuner, which they could make themselves. A year or two earlier Philip\nwould have refused to share a room with anyone, since he was so sensitive\nabout his deformed foot, but his morbid way of looking at it was growing\nless marked: in Paris it did not seem to matter so much, and, though he\nnever by any chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other people\nwere constantly noticing it.\n\nThey moved in, bought a couple of beds, a washing-stand, a few chairs, and\nfelt for the first time the thrill of possession. They were so excited\nthat the first night they went to bed in what they could call a home they\nlay awake talking till three in the morning; and next day found lighting\nthe fire and making their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such a\njolly business that Philip did not get to Amitrano's till nearly eleven.\nHe was in excellent spirits. He nodded to Fanny Price.\n\n\"How are you getting on?\" he asked cheerily.\n\n\"What does that matter to you?\" she asked in reply.\n\nPhilip could not help laughing.\n\n\"Don't jump down my throat. I was only trying to make myself polite.\"\n\n\"I don't want your politeness.\"\n\n\"D'you think it's worth while quarrelling with me too?\" asked Philip\nmildly. \"There are so few people you're on speaking terms with, as it is.\"\n\n\"That's my business, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Quite.\"\n\nHe began to work, vaguely wondering why Fanny Price made herself so\ndisagreeable. He had come to the conclusion that he thoroughly disliked\nher. Everyone did. People were only civil to her at all from fear of the\nmalice of her tongue; for to their faces and behind their backs she said\nabominable things. But Philip was feeling so happy that he did not want\neven Miss Price to bear ill-feeling towards him. He used the artifice\nwhich had often before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour.\n\n\"I say, I wish you'd come and look at my drawing. I've got in an awful\nmess.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much, but I've got something better to do with my time.\"\n\nPhilip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing she could be counted\nupon to do with alacrity was to give advice. She went on quickly in a low\nvoice, savage with fury.\n\n\"Now that Lawson's gone you think you'll put up with me. Thank you very\nmuch. Go and find somebody else to help you. I don't want anybody else's\nleavings.\"\n\nLawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found anything out he was\neager to impart it; and because he taught with delight he talked with\nprofit. Philip, without thinking anything about it, had got into the habit\nof sitting by his side; it never occurred to him that Fanny Price was\nconsumed with jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else's\ntuition with ever-increasing anger.\n\n\"You were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody here,\" she said\nbitterly, \"and as soon as you made friends with other people you threw me\naside, like an old glove\"--she repeated the stale metaphor with\nsatisfaction--\"like an old glove. All right, I don't care, but I'm not\ngoing to be made a fool of another time.\"\n\nThere was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made Philip angry\nenough to answer what first came into his head.\n\n\"Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw it pleased you.\"\n\nShe gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. Then two tears\nrolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy and grotesque. Philip, not\nknowing what on earth this new attitude implied, went back to his work. He\nwas uneasy and conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say he\nwas sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would take\nthe opportunity to snub him. For two or three weeks she did not speak to\nhim, and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by her, he\nwas somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a friendship. He had\nbeen a little disconcerted by the air of proprietorship she assumed over\nhim. She was an extraordinary woman. She came every day to the studio at\neight o'clock, and was ready to start working when the model was in\nposition; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour after\nhour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the clock\nstruck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not in it the smallest\napproach even to the mediocre achievement at which most of the young\npersons were able after some months to arrive. She wore every day the same\nugly brown dress, with the mud of the last wet day still caked on the hem\nand with the raggedness, which Philip had noticed the first time he saw\nher, still unmended.\n\nBut one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked whether she\nmight speak to him afterwards.\n\n\"Of course, as much as you like,\" smiled Philip. \"I'll wait behind at\ntwelve.\"\n\nHe went to her when the day's work was over.\n\n\"Will you walk a little bit with me?\" she said, looking away from him with\nembarrassment.\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\nThey walked for two or three minutes in silence.\n\n\"D'you remember what you said to me the other day?\" she asked then on a\nsudden.\n\n\"Oh, I say, don't let's quarrel,\" said Philip. \"It really isn't worth\nwhile.\"\n\nShe gave a quick, painful inspiration.\n\n\"I don't want to quarrel with you. You're the only friend I had in Paris.\nI thought you rather liked me. I felt there was something between us. I\nwas drawn towards you--you know what I mean, your club-foot.\"\n\nPhilip reddened and instinctively tried to walk without a limp. He did not\nlike anyone to mention the deformity. He knew what Fanny Price meant. She\nwas ugly and uncouth, and because he was deformed there was between them\na certain sympathy. He was very angry with her, but he forced himself not\nto speak.\n\n\"You said you only asked my advice to please me. Don't you think my work's\nany good?\"\n\n\"I've only seen your drawing at Amitrano's. It's awfully hard to judge\nfrom that.\"\n\n\"I was wondering if you'd come and look at my other work. I've never asked\nanyone else to look at it. I should like to show it to you.\"\n\n\"It's awfully kind of you. I'd like to see it very much.\"\n\n\"I live quite near here,\" she said apologetically. \"It'll only take you\nten minutes.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" he said.\n\nThey were walking along the boulevard, and she turned down a side street,\nthen led him into another, poorer still, with cheap shops on the ground\nfloor, and at last stopped. They climbed flight after flight of stairs.\nShe unlocked a door, and they went into a tiny attic with a sloping roof\nand a small window. This was closed and the room had a musty smell. Though\nit was very cold there was no fire and no sign that there had been one.\nThe bed was unmade. A chair, a chest of drawers which served also as a\nwash-stand, and a cheap easel, were all the furniture. The place would\nhave been squalid enough in any case, but the litter, the untidiness, made\nthe impression revolting. On the chimney-piece, scattered over with paints\nand brushes, were a cup, a dirty plate, and a tea-pot.\n\n\"If you'll stand over there I'll put them on the chair so that you can see\nthem better.\"\n\nShe showed him twenty small canvases, about eighteen by twelve. She placed\nthem on the chair, one after the other, watching his face; he nodded as he\nlooked at each one.\n\n\"You do like them, don't you?\" she said anxiously, after a bit.\n\n\"I just want to look at them all first,\" he answered. \"I'll talk\nafterwards.\"\n\nHe was collecting himself. He was panic-stricken. He did not know what to\nsay. It was not only that they were ill-drawn, or that the colour was put\non amateurishly by someone who had no eye for it; but there was no attempt\nat getting the values, and the perspective was grotesque. It looked like\nthe work of a child of five, but a child would have had some naivete and\nmight at least have made an attempt to put down what he saw; but here was\nthe work of a vulgar mind chock full of recollections of vulgar pictures.\nPhilip remembered that she had talked enthusiastically about Monet and the\nImpressionists, but here were only the worst traditions of the Royal\nAcademy.\n\n\"There,\" she said at last, \"that's the lot.\"\n\nPhilip was no more truthful than anybody else, but he had a great\ndifficulty in telling a thundering, deliberate lie, and he blushed\nfuriously when he answered:\n\n\"I think they're most awfully good.\"\n\nA faint colour came into her unhealthy cheeks, and she smiled a little.\n\n\"You needn't say so if you don't think so, you know. I want the truth.\"\n\n\"But I do think so.\"\n\n\"Haven't you got any criticism to offer? There must be some you don't like\nas well as others.\"\n\nPhilip looked round helplessly. He saw a landscape, the typical\npicturesque 'bit' of the amateur, an old bridge, a creeper-clad cottage,\nand a leafy bank.\n\n\"Of course I don't pretend to know anything about it,\" he said. \"But I\nwasn't quite sure about the values of that.\"\n\nShe flushed darkly and taking up the picture quickly turned its back to\nhim.\n\n\"I don't know why you should have chosen that one to sneer at. It's the\nbest thing I've ever done. I'm sure my values are all right. That's a\nthing you can't teach anyone, you either understand values or you don't.\"\n\n\"I think they're all most awfully good,\" repeated Philip.\n\nShe looked at them with an air of self-satisfaction.\n\n\"I don't think they're anything to be ashamed of.\"\n\nPhilip looked at his watch.\n\n\"I say, it's getting late. Won't you let me give you a little lunch?\"\n\n\"I've got my lunch waiting for me here.\"\n\nPhilip saw no sign of it, but supposed perhaps the concierge would bring\nit up when he was gone. He was in a hurry to get away. The mustiness of\nthe room made his head ache.\n\n\n\nXLVII\n\n\nIn March there was all the excitement of sending in to the Salon. Clutton,\ncharacteristically, had nothing ready, and he was very scornful of the two\nheads that Lawson sent; they were obviously the work of a student,\nstraight-forward portraits of models, but they had a certain force;\nClutton, aiming at perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayed\nhesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told Lawson it was an\nimpertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been allowed out of\nhis studio; he was not less contemptuous when the two heads were accepted.\nFlanagan tried his luck too, but his picture was refused. Mrs. Otter sent\na blameless Portrait de ma Mere, accomplished and second-rate; and was\nhung in a very good place.\n\nHayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg, arrived in\nParis to spend a few days in time to come to the party which Lawson and\nPhilip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of Lawson's\npictures. Philip had been eager to see Hayward again, but when at last\nthey met, he experienced some disappointment. Hayward had altered a little\nin appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting of\nthe very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes were\npaler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features. On\nthe other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the\nculture which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the\ncontempt of Philip at twenty-one. He had altered a good deal himself, and\nregarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had\nno patience with anyone who still held them. He was scarcely conscious of\nthe fact that he wanted to show off before Hayward, but when he took him\nround the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions\nwhich himself had so recently adopted. He took him to Manet's Olympia\nand said dramatically:\n\n\"I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Vermeer\nfor that one picture.\"\n\n\"Who was Vermeer?\" asked Hayward.\n\n\"Oh, my dear fellow, don't you know Vermeer? You're not civilised. You\nmustn't live a moment longer without making his acquaintance. He's the one\nold master who painted like a modern.\"\n\nHe dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to the\nLouvre.\n\n\"But aren't there any more pictures here?\" asked Hayward, with the\ntourist's passion for thoroughness.\n\n\"Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and look at them by\nyourself with your Baedeker.\"\n\nWhen they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the Long\nGallery.\n\n\"I should like to see The Gioconda,\" said Hayward.\n\n\"Oh, my dear fellow, it's only literature,\" answered Philip.\n\nAt last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lacemaker of Vermeer\nvan Delft.\n\n\"There, that's the best picture in the Louvre. It's exactly like a Manet.\"\n\nWith an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the charming work.\nHe used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect.\n\n\"I don't know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in it,\" said\nHayward.\n\n\"Of course it's a painter's picture,\" said Philip. \"I can quite believe\nthe layman would see nothing much in it.\"\n\n\"The what?\" said Hayward.\n\n\"The layman.\"\n\nLike most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward was\nextremely anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those who did not\nventure to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was very\nmodest. He was impressed by Philip's assurance, and accepted meekly\nPhilip's implied suggestion that the painter's arrogant claim to be the\nsole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to\nrecommend it.\n\nA day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw, making an\nexception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and Miss Chalice\noffered to come and cook for them. She took no interest in her own sex and\ndeclined the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake.\nClutton, Flanagan, Potter, and two others made up the party. Furniture was\nscarce, so the model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to sit\non portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn't on the floor. The feast\nconsisted of a pot-au-feu, which Miss Chalice had made, of a leg of\nmutton roasted round the corner and brought round hot and savoury (Miss\nChalice had cooked the potatoes, and the studio was redolent of the\ncarrots she had fried; fried carrots were her specialty); and this was to\nbe followed by poires flambees, pears with burning brandy, which\nCronshaw had volunteered to make. The meal was to finish with an enormous\nfromage de Brie, which stood near the window and added fragrant odours\nto all the others which filled the studio. Cronshaw sat in the place of\nhonour on a Gladstone bag, with his legs curled under him like a Turkish\nbashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the young people who surrounded him.\nFrom force of habit, though the small studio with the stove lit was very\nhot, he kept on his great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowler\nhat: he looked with satisfaction on the four large fiaschi of Chianti\nwhich stood in front of him in a row, two on each side of a bottle of\nwhiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair Circassian guarded by four\ncorpulent eunuchs. Hayward in order to put the rest of them at their ease\nhad clothed himself in a tweed suit and a Trinity Hall tie. He looked\ngrotesquely British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and during\nthe soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. There was\na pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and Miss Chalice lit a\ncigarette.\n\n\"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,\" she said suddenly.\n\nWith an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell over\nher shoulders. She shook her head.\n\n\"I always feel more comfortable with my hair down.\"\n\nWith her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broad\nforehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by Burne-Jones. She had\nlong, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. She wore\nsweeping draperies, mauve and green. There was about her the romantic air\nof High Street, Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an\nexcellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but\nskin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout of\nexultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton and\nheld it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist on\na platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn,\nhieratic steps.\n\n\"Hail, daughter of Herodias,\" cried Cronshaw.\n\nThe mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty\nappetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter sat on each side of\nher, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grew\ntired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat\nafterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She\nbore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so,\nand treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. Now and then\nshe looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The poires flambees were a\ngreat success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because Miss\nChalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese.\n\n\"I don't know whether it's perfectly delicious, or whether I'm just going\nto vomit,\" she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture.\n\nCoffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward\nconsequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, who\ncould do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in\na graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his\nshoulder. She looked into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, and\nnow and then with a long meditative glance at Lawson she sighed deeply.\n\n\nThen came the summer, and restlessness seized these young people. The blue\nskies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant breeze sighing through the\nleaves of the plane-trees on the boulevard drew them towards the country.\nEveryone made plans for leaving Paris; they discussed what was the most\nsuitable size for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores of\npanels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various places in\nBrittany. Flanagan and Potter went to Concarneau; Mrs. Otter and her\nmother, with a natural instinct for the obvious, went to Pont-Aven; Philip\nand Lawson made up their minds to go to the forest of Fontainebleau, and\nMiss Chalice knew of a very good hotel at Moret where there was lots of\nstuff to paint; it was near Paris, and neither Philip nor Lawson was\nindifferent to the railway fare. Ruth Chalice would be there, and Lawson\nhad an idea for a portrait of her in the open air. Just then the Salon was\nfull of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with blinking eyes\nand green reflections of sunlit leaves on their faces. They asked Clutton\nto go with them, but he preferred spending the summer by himself. He had\njust discovered Cezanne, and was eager to go to Provence; he wanted heavy\nskies from which the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, and\nbroad white dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt the\ncolour, and olive trees gray with heat.\n\nThe day before they were to start, after the morning class, Philip,\nputting his things together, spoke to Fanny Price.\n\n\"I'm off tomorrow,\" he said cheerfully.\n\n\"Off where?\" she said quickly. \"You're not going away?\" Her face fell.\n\n\"I'm going away for the summer. Aren't you?\"\n\n\"No, I'm staying in Paris. I thought you were going to stay too. I was\nlooking forward....\"\n\nShe stopped and shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"But won't it be frightfully hot here? It's awfully bad for you.\"\n\n\"Much you care if it's bad for me. Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Moret.\"\n\n\"Chalice is going there. You're not going with her?\"\n\n\"Lawson and I are going. And she's going there too. I don't know that\nwe're actually going together.\"\n\nShe gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red.\n\n\"How filthy! I thought you were a decent fellow. You were about the only\none here. She's been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with old\nFoinet--that's why he takes so much trouble about her--and now two of you,\nyou and Lawson. It makes me sick.\"\n\n\"Oh, what nonsense! She's a very decent sort. One treats her just as if\nshe were a man.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't speak to me, don't speak to me.\"\n\n\"But what can it matter to you?\" asked Philip. \"It's really no business of\nyours where I spend my summer.\"\n\n\"I was looking forward to it so much,\" she gasped, speaking it seemed\nalmost to herself. \"I didn't think you had the money to go away, and there\nwouldn't have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together,\nand we'd have gone to see things.\" Then her thoughts flung back to Ruth\nChalice. \"The filthy beast,\" she cried. \"She isn't fit to speak to.\"\n\nPhilip looked at her with a sinking heart. He was not a man to think girls\nwere in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he felt\nawkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburst\ncould mean. Fanny Price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair falling\nover her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled\ndown her cheeks. She was repellent. Philip glanced at the door,\ninstinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to the\nscene.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry,\" he said.\n\n\"You're just the same as all of them. You take all you can get, and you\ndon't even say thank you. I've taught you everything you know. No one else\nwould take any trouble with you. Has Foinet ever bothered about you? And\nI can tell you this--you can work here for a thousand years and you'll\nnever do any good. You haven't got any talent. You haven't got any\noriginality. And it's not only me--they all say it. You'll never be a\npainter as long as you live.\"\n\n\"That is no business of yours either, is it?\" said Philip, flushing.\n\n\"Oh, you think it's only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice.\nNever, never, never. You haven't got it in you.\"\n\nPhilip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after him.\n\n\"Never, never, never.\"\n\n\nMoret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at the edge of\nthe forest of Fontainebleau, and the Ecu d'Or was a hotel which still\nhad about it the decrepit air of the Ancien Regime. It faced the winding\nriver, the Loing; and Miss Chalice had a room with a little terrace\noverlooking it, with a charming view of the old bridge and its fortified\ngateway. They sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee,\nsmoking, and discussing art. There ran into the river, a little way off,\na narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this after\ntheir day's work they often wandered. They spent all day painting. Like\nmost of their generation they were obsessed by the fear of the\npicturesque, and they turned their backs on the obvious beauty of the town\nto seek subjects which were devoid of a prettiness they despised. Sisley\nand Monet had painted the canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire\nto try their hands at what was so typical of France; but they were\nfrightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid\nit. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed Lawson\nnotwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in which\nshe tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of the\ntrees; and Lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground a\nlarge blue advertisement of chocolat Menier in order to emphasise his\nabhorrence of the chocolate box.\n\nPhilip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of delight when\nfirst he used that grateful medium. He went out with Lawson in the morning\nwith his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so much\nsatisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; he\nwas so much under his friend's influence that he saw only with his eyes.\nLawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the\ngrass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in their\nhands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had one fine day after\nanother; it was very hot; and the heat, searing Philip's heart, filled him\nwith languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousand\nthoughts. Often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the\nshade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an\nhour. Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty road\nthat led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. His head was full\nof romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed to\nwander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to one\nanother careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless\nfear.\n\nThey were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle age, a\nRabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent the day by the\nriver patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and Philip sometimes\nwent down and talked to her. He found out that she had belonged to a\nprofession whose most notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren,\nand having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the\nbourgeoise. She told Philip lewd stories.\n\n\"You must go to Seville,\" she said--she spoke a little broken English.\n\"The most beautiful women in the world.\"\n\nShe leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large belly, shook\nwith inward laughter.\n\nIt grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. The heat\nseemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. They\ndid not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit\non the terrace of Ruth Chalice's room, silent, hour after hour, too tired\nto talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. They\nlistened to the murmur of the river. The church clock struck one and two\nand sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed. Suddenly\nPhilip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were lovers. He divined\nit in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air of\npossession; and as Philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluence\nsurrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange. The\nrevelation was a shock. He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very good\nfellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him\npossible to enter into a closer relationship. One Sunday they had all gone\nwith a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which was\nsuitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on taking\noff her shoes and stockings. It would have been very charming only her\nfeet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe.\nPhilip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. But now he looked\nupon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in her\nlarge eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seen\nthat she was attractive. He thought he detected in her a touch of contempt\nfor him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, in\nhis way, and in Lawson a suspicion of superiority. He was envious of\nLawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his\nlove. He wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his\nheart. He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass him\nby. He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feet\nand borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither. Miss Chalice\nand Lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constant\ncompanionship with them made him restless. He was dissatisfied with\nhimself. Life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy\nfeeling that he was losing his time.\n\nThe stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between the\ncouple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the utmost frankness.\n\n\"And you,\" she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened on\nthe lust of her fellows, \"have you got a petite amie?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Philip, blushing.\n\n\"And why not? C'est de votre age.\"\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of Verlaine in his hands, and\nhe wandered off. He tried to read, but his passion was too strong. He\nthought of the stray amours to which he had been introduced by Flanagan,\nthe sly visits to houses in a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room in\nUtrecht velvet, and the mercenary graces of painted women. He shuddered.\nHe threw himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animal\nfreshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gently\ntremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost more than he\ncould bear. He was in love with love. In his fancy he felt the kiss of\nwarm lips on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands. He imagined\nhimself in the arms of Ruth Chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and the\nwonderful texture of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful\nadventure slip through his fingers. And if Lawson had done it why should\nnot he? But this was only when he did not see her, when he lay awake at\nnight or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw her he felt\nsuddenly quite different; he had no desire to take her in his arms, and he\ncould not imagine himself kissing her. It was very curious. Away from her\nhe thought her beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and the\ncreamy pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that she\nwas flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed; he could not\nforget the corns on her toes. He could not understand himself. Would he\nalways love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying anything when\nhe had the chance by that deformity of vision which seemed to exaggerate\nthe revolting?\n\nHe was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the definite end\nof the long summer, drove them all back to Paris.\n\n\n\nXLVIII\n\n\nWhen Philip returned to Amitrano's he found that Fanny Price was no longer\nworking there. She had given up the key of her locker. He asked Mrs. Otter\nwhether she knew what had become of her; and Mrs. Otter, with a shrug of\nthe shoulders, answered that she had probably gone back to England. Philip\nwas relieved. He was profoundly bored by her ill-temper. Moreover she\ninsisted on advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight when\nhe did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he felt\nhimself no longer the duffer he had been at first. Soon he forgot all\nabout her. He was working in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. He\nhoped to have something done of sufficient importance to send to the\nfollowing year's Salon. Lawson was painting a portrait of Miss Chalice.\nShe was very paintable, and all the young men who had fallen victims to\nher charm had made portraits of her. A natural indolence, joined with a\npassion for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and she\nhad enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. Since her\npassion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of artists, she was\nquite content to neglect her own work. She liked the warmth of the studio,\nand the opportunity to smoke innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a\nlow, pleasant voice of the love of art and the art of love. She made no\nclear distinction between the two.\n\nLawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could hardly\nstand for days and then scraping out all he had done. He would have\nexhausted the patience of anyone but Ruth Chalice. At last he got into a\nhopeless muddle.\n\n\"The only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh,\" he said. \"I know\nexactly what I want now, and it won't take me long.\"\n\nPhilip was present at the time, and Miss Chalice said to him:\n\n\"Why don't you paint me too? You'll be able to learn a lot by watching Mr.\nLawson.\"\n\nIt was one of Miss Chalice's delicacies that she always addressed her\nlovers by their surnames.\n\n\"I should like it awfully if Lawson wouldn't mind.\"\n\n\"I don't care a damn,\" said Lawson.\n\nIt was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he began with\ntrepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and painted as he saw\nhim paint. He profited by the example and by the advice which both Lawson\nand Miss Chalice freely gave him. At last Lawson finished and invited\nClutton in to criticise. Clutton had only just come back to Paris. From\nProvence he had drifted down to Spain, eager to see Velasquez at Madrid,\nand thence he had gone to Toledo. He stayed there three months, and he was\nreturned with a name new to the young men: he had wonderful things to say\nof a painter called El Greco, who it appeared could only be studied in\nToledo.\n\n\"Oh yes, I know about him,\" said Lawson, \"he's the old master whose\ndistinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns.\"\n\nClutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at Lawson\nwith a sardonic air.\n\n\"Are you going to show us the stuff you've brought back from Spain?\" asked\nPhilip.\n\n\"I didn't paint in Spain, I was too busy.\"\n\n\"What did you do then?\"\n\n\"I thought things out. I believe I'm through with the Impressionists; I've\ngot an idea they'll seem very thin and superficial in a few years. I want\nto make a clean sweep of everything I've learnt and start fresh. When I\ncame back I destroyed everything I'd painted. I've got nothing in my\nstudio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"I don't know yet. I've only got an inkling of what I want.\"\n\nHe spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were straining to hear\nsomething which was only just audible. There seemed to be a mysterious\nforce in him which he himself did not understand, but which was struggling\nobscurely to find an outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dreaded\nthe criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he\nmight get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton's; but Philip\nknew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than Clutton's\npraise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then\nglanced at Philip's picture, which was standing on an easel.\n\n\"What's that?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too.\"\n\n\"The sedulous ape,\" he murmured.\n\nHe turned away again to Lawson's canvas. Philip reddened but did not\nspeak.\n\n\"Well, what d'you think of it?\" asked Lawson at length.\n\n\"The modelling's jolly good,\" said Clutton. \"And I think it's very well\ndrawn.\"\n\n\"D'you think the values are all right?\"\n\n\"Quite.\"\n\nLawson smiled with delight. He shook himself in his clothes like a wet\ndog.\n\n\"I say, I'm jolly glad you like it.\"\n\n\"I don't. I don't think it's of the smallest importance.\"\n\nLawson's face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment: he had no\nnotion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he\nspoke as though it were an effort. What he had to say was confused,\nhalting, and verbose; but Philip knew the words which served as the text\nof his rambling discourse. Clutton, who never read, had heard them first\nfrom Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had\nremained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the\ncharacter of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint,\nnamely, man and the intention of his soul. The Impressionists had been\noccupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they had\ntroubled themselves as little as the English portrait painters of the\neighteenth century with the intention of his soul.\n\n\"But when you try to get that you become literary,\" said Lawson,\ninterrupting. \"Let me paint the man like Manet, and the intention of his\nsoul can go to the devil.\"\n\n\"That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own game, but\nyou can't get anywhere near him. You can't feed yourself on the day before\nyesterday, it's ground which has been swept dry. You must go back. It's\nwhen I saw the Grecos that I felt one could get something more out of\nportraits than we knew before.\"\n\n\"It's just going back to Ruskin,\" cried Lawson.\n\n\"No--you see, he went for morality: I don't care a damn for morality:\nteaching doesn't come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion.\nThe greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention of\nhis soul; Rembrandt and El Greco; it's only the second-raters who've only\npainted man. A lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn't smell,\nbut it's more lovely because it has perfume. That picture\"--he pointed to\nLawson's portrait--\"well, the drawing's all right and so's the modelling\nall right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled so\nthat you know the girl's a lousy slut. Correctness is all very well: El\nGreco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express\nsomething he couldn't get any other way.\"\n\n\"Damn El Greco,\" said Lawson, \"what's the good of jawing about a man when\nwe haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?\"\n\nClutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went\naway. Philip and Lawson looked at one another.\n\n\"There's something in what he says,\" said Philip.\n\nLawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture.\n\n\"How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by painting\nexactly what one sees?\"\n\n\nAbout this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning models\nassembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week,\nand one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model by\nprofession. Philip's attention was attracted by the manner in which he\nheld himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet,\nsquare, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward;\nthe attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his\nmuscles stood out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped,\nwas well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes and\nheavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without appearance of\nfatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination.\nHis air of passionate energy excited Philip's romantic imagination, and\nwhen, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that\nhe wore them as though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, but\nin a day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard and\nthat he had never sat before.\n\n\"I suppose he was starving,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Have you noticed his clothes? They're quite neat and decent, aren't\nthey?\"\n\nIt chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at Amitrano's, was\ngoing to Italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to Philip.\nPhilip was pleased. He was growing a little impatient of Lawson's\nperemptory advice and wanted to be by himself. At the end of the week he\nwent up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished\nasked whether he would come and sit to him one day.\n\n\"I'm not a model,\" the Spaniard answered. \"I have other things to do next\nweek.\"\n\n\"Come and have luncheon with me now, and we'll talk about it,\" said\nPhilip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: \"It won't hurt\nyou to lunch with me.\"\n\nWith a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to a\ncremerie. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent but difficult to\nfollow, and Philip managed to get on well enough with him. He found out\nthat he was a writer. He had come to Paris to write novels and kept\nhimself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; he\ngave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chiefly\nbusiness documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his fine\nfigure. Sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the last week\nwas enough to keep him for two more; he told Philip, amazed, that he could\nlive easily on two francs a day; but it filled him with shame that he was\nobliged to show his body for money, and he looked upon sitting as a\ndegradation which only hunger could excuse. Philip explained that he did\nnot want him to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to do\na portrait of him which he might send to the next Salon.\n\n\"But why should you want to paint me?\" asked the Spaniard.\n\nPhilip answered that the head interested him, he thought he could do a\ngood portrait.\n\n\"I can't afford the time. I grudge every minute that I have to rob from my\nwriting.\"\n\n\"But it would only be in the afternoon. I work at the school in the\nmorning. After all, it's better to sit to me than to do translations of\nlegal documents.\"\n\nThere were legends in the Latin quarter of a time when students of\ndifferent countries lived together intimately, but this was long since\npassed, and now the various nations were almost as much separated as in an\nOriental city. At Julian's and at the Beaux Arts a French student was\nlooked upon with disfavour by his fellow-countrymen when he consorted with\nforeigners, and it was difficult for an Englishman to know more than quite\nsuperficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he dwelt.\nIndeed, many of the students after living in Paris for five years knew no\nmore French than served them in shops and lived as English a life as\nthough they were working in South Kensington.\n\nPhilip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to get\nin touch with a Spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome the\nman's reluctance.\n\n\"I'll tell you what I'll do,\" said the Spaniard at last. \"I'll sit to you,\nbut not for money, for my own pleasure.\"\n\nPhilip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged\nthat he should come on the following Monday at one o'clock. He gave Philip\na card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria.\n\nMiguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed\nfifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little more\nexpensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but\ngave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his\nliving in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as a\nrepresentative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada,\nVelasquez and Calderon. But Miguel had no patience with the grandeur of\nhis country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was the\nonly country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world.\n\n\"Spain is dead,\" he cried. \"It has no writers, it has no art, it has\nnothing.\"\n\nLittle by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his\nambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. He\nwas under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. He\ntold Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the\nnaive obscenity--c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie, he cried--the\nnaive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the\nanecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying\nhimself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris,\nfighting with starvation for art's sake, determined that nothing should\nhinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic.\n\n\"But why don't you write about Spain?\" cried Philip. \"It would be so much\nmore interesting. You know the life.\"\n\n\"But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life.\"\n\nOne day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French,\ntranslating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely\nunderstand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, looked\nat the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was\ntrivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the\nobvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a\nsitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very\nwell to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was\nwhen people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and it\ndistressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had\neverything to make a good writer but talent. Philip looked at his own\nwork. How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you\nwere wasting your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could not\nhelp you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of Fanny\nPrice; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will was\nextraordinary.\n\n\"If I thought I wasn't going to be really good, I'd rather give up\npainting,\" said Philip. \"I don't see any use in being a second-rate\npainter.\"\n\nThen one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to him\nthat there was a letter. Nobody wrote to him but his Aunt Louisa and\nsometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know. The letter\nwas as follows:\n\n\nPlease come at once when you get this. I couldn't put up with it any more.\nPlease come yourself. I can't bear the thought that anyone else should\ntouch me. I want you to have everything.\n\nF. Price\n\n\nI have not had anything to eat for three days.\n\n\nPhilip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house in which\nshe lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at all. He had not seen\nher for months and imagined she had long since returned to England. When\nhe arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in.\n\n\"Yes, I've not seen her go out for two days.\"\n\nPhilip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply. He called\nher name. The door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was in\nthe lock.\n\n\"Oh, my God, I hope she hasn't done something awful,\" he cried aloud.\n\nHe ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room.\nHe had had a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. He suggested\nbreaking open the door. The porter, who had been sullen and disinclined to\nlisten, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of breaking\ninto the room; they must go for the commissaire de police. They walked\ntogether to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith. Philip found\nthat Miss Price had not paid the last quarter's rent: on New Year's Day\nshe had not given the concierge the present which old-established custom\nled him to regard as a right. The four of them went upstairs, and they\nknocked again at the door. There was no reply. The locksmith set to work,\nand at last they entered the room. Philip gave a cry and instinctively\ncovered his eyes with his hands. The wretched woman was hanging with a\nrope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed by\nsome previous tenant to hold up the curtains of the bed. She had moved her\nown little bed out of the way and had stood on a chair, which had been\nkicked away. It was lying on its side on the floor. They cut her down.\nThe body was quite cold.\n\n\n\nXLIX\n\n\nThe story which Philip made out in one way and another was terrible. One\nof the grievances of the women-students was that Fanny Price would never\nshare their gay meals in restaurants, and the reason was obvious: she had\nbeen oppressed by dire poverty. He remembered the luncheon they had eaten\ntogether when first he came to Paris and the ghoulish appetite which had\ndisgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner because she was\nravenous. The concierge told him what her food had consisted of. A\nbottle of milk was left for her every day and she brought in her own loaf\nof bread; she ate half the loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day when\nshe came back from the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. It\nwas the same day after day. Philip thought with anguish of what she must\nhave endured. She had never given anyone to understand that she was poorer\nthan the rest, but it was clear that her money had been coming to an end,\nand at last she could not afford to come any more to the studio. The\nlittle room was almost bare of furniture, and there were no other clothes\nthan the shabby brown dress she had always worn. Philip searched among her\nthings for the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. He\nfound a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score of times.\nIt gave him a peculiar shock. He supposed it was true that she had loved\nhim; he thought of the emaciated body, in the brown dress, hanging from\nthe nail in the ceiling; and he shuddered. But if she had cared for him\nwhy did she not let him help her? He would so gladly have done all he\ncould. He felt remorseful because he had refused to see that she looked\nupon him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her letter\nwere infinitely pathetic: I can't bear the thought that anyone else should\ntouch me. She had died of starvation.\n\nPhilip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother, Albert. It\nwas two or three weeks old, dated from some road in Surbiton, and refused\na loan of five pounds. The writer had his wife and family to think of, he\ndidn't feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that Fanny\nshould come back to London and try to get a situation. Philip telegraphed\nto Albert Price, and in a little while an answer came:\n\n\"Deeply distressed. Very awkward to leave my business. Is presence\nessential. Price.\"\n\nPhilip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presented\nhimself at the studio.\n\n\"My name's Price,\" he said, when Philip opened the door.\n\nHe was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he had\nsomething of Fanny's clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had a\ncockney accent. Philip asked him to come in. He cast sidelong glances\nround the studio while Philip gave him details of the accident and told\nhim what he had done.\n\n\"I needn't see her, need I?\" asked Albert Price. \"My nerves aren't very\nstrong, and it takes very little to upset me.\"\n\nHe began to talk freely. He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife and\nthree children. Fanny was a governess, and he couldn't make out why she\nhadn't stuck to that instead of coming to Paris.\n\n\"Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl. And there's no\nmoney in art--never 'as been.\"\n\nIt was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with his\nsister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had done\nhim. He did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty;\nthat seemed to reflect on the family. The idea struck him that possibly\nthere was a more respectable reason for her act.\n\n\"I suppose she 'adn't any trouble with a man, 'ad she? You know what I\nmean, Paris and all that. She might 'ave done it so as not to disgrace\nherself.\"\n\nPhilip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. Price's keen little\neyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue.\n\n\"I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous,\" he answered\nacidly. \"She killed herself because she was starving.\"\n\n\"Well, it's very 'ard on her family, Mr. Carey. She only 'ad to write to\nme. I wouldn't have let my sister want.\"\n\nPhilip had found the brother's address only by reading the letter in which\nhe refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders: there was no use in\nrecrimination. He hated the little man and wanted to have done with him as\nsoon as possible. Albert Price also wished to get through the necessary\nbusiness quickly so that he could get back to London. They went to the\ntiny room in which poor Fanny had lived. Albert Price looked at the\npictures and the furniture.\n\n\"I don't pretend to know much about art,\" he said. \"I suppose these\npictures would fetch something, would they?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Philip.\n\n\"The furniture's not worth ten shillings.\"\n\nAlbert Price knew no French and Philip had to do everything. It seemed\nthat it was an interminable process to get the poor body safely hidden\naway under ground: papers had to be obtained in one place and signed in\nanother; officials had to be seen. For three days Philip was occupied from\nmorning till night. At last he and Albert Price followed the hearse to the\ncemetery at Montparnasse.\n\n\"I want to do the thing decent,\" said Albert Price, \"but there's no use\nwasting money.\"\n\nThe short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. Half\na dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at the studio came to the\nfuneral, Mrs. Otter because she was massiere and thought it her duty,\nRuth Chalice because she had a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan.\nThey had all disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across the\ncemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, others\nvulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was horribly sordid. When\nthey came out Albert Price asked Philip to lunch with him. Philip loathed\nhim now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamed\nconstantly of Fanny Price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail\nin the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse.\n\n\"You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. All this\nis the very worst thing for my nerves.\"\n\n\"Lavenue's is about the best place round here,\" answered Philip.\n\nAlbert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. He\nordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine.\n\n\"Well, I'm glad that's over,\" he said.\n\nHe threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that he was\neager to hear about the painter's life in Paris. He represented it to\nhimself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies which\nhis fancy suggested to him. With sly winks and discreet sniggering he\nconveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more than\nPhilip confessed. He was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two.\nHe asked Philip whether he had ever been to any of those places in\nMontmartre which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. He\nwould like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon was very\ngood and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as the processes of\ndigestion went satisfactorily forwards.\n\n\"Let's 'ave a little brandy,\" he said when the coffee was brought, \"and\nblow the expense.\"\n\nHe rubbed his hands.\n\n\"You know, I've got 'alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow.\nWhat d'you say to spending the evening together?\"\n\n\"If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight, I'll see\nyou damned,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing.\"\n\nThe answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled.\n\n\"Besides it would be rotten for your nerves,\" he said gravely.\n\nAlbert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four\no'clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip.\n\n\"Well, good-bye, old man,\" he said. \"I tell you what, I'll try and come\nover to Paris again one of these days and I'll look you up. And then we\nwon't 'alf go on the razzle.\"\n\nPhilip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and\ncrossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at\nDurand-Ruel's. After that he strolled along the boulevard. It was cold and\nwind-swept. People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together\nin an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and\ncareworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all\nthose white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely\nhomesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and\nClutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of\nRuth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go\nand see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his\nwork and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money\nthan most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip looked\nat the two heads that he was sending to the Salon.\n\n\"It's awful cheek my sending anything,\" said Flanagan, \"but I don't care,\nI'm going to send. D'you think they're rotten?\"\n\n\"Not so rotten as I should have expected,\" said Philip.\n\nThey showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties had been\navoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint\nwas put on which was surprising and even attractive. Flanagan, without\nknowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has\nspent a lifetime in the practice of the art.\n\n\"If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds\nyou'd be a great master, Flanagan,\" smiled Philip.\n\nThese young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with\nexcessive flattery.\n\n\"We haven't got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds in\nlooking at any picture,\" laughed the other.\n\nFlanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had\na tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. Whenever anyone\nwas ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than any\nmedicine. Like many of his countrymen he had not the English dread of\nsentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding\nnothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy\nwhich was often grateful to his friends in distress. He saw that Philip\nwas depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindliness\nset himself boisterously to cheer him up. He exaggerated the Americanisms\nwhich he knew always made the Englishmen laugh and poured out a breathless\nstream of conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. In due course\nthey went out to dinner and afterwards to the Gaite Montparnasse, which\nwas Flanagan's favourite place of amusement. By the end of the evening he\nwas in his most extravagant humour. He had drunk a good deal, but any\ninebriety from which he suffered was due much more to his own vivacity\nthan to alcohol. He proposed that they should go to the Bal Bullier, and\nPhilip, feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. They\nsat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little from the\nlevel of the floor so that they could watch the dancing, and drank a bock.\nPresently Flanagan saw a friend and with a wild shout leaped over the\nbarrier on to the space where they were dancing. Philip watched the\npeople. Bullier was not the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night and\nthe place was crowded. There were a number of students of the various\nfaculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; they\nwore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, and\ntheir hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they danced\nthere was no place to put them but their heads. Some of the women looked\nlike servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most part\nthey were shop-girls. They were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of the\nfashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up to\nresemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at the\nmoment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudently\nscarlet. The hall was lit by great white lights, low down, which\nemphasised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden under\nit, and the colours were most crude. It was a sordid scene. Philip leaned\nover the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced\nfuriously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with\nall their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their faces\nshone with sweat. It seemed to Philip that they had thrown off the guard\nwhich people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and he\nsaw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they were\nstrangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others had\nthe long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from the\nunhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. Their features were\nblunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning.\nThere was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all\nof them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts.\nThe air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they danced\nfuriously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it\nseemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment.\nThey were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire\nfor pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged\nthem blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of\nall pleasure. They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew\nnot why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them, and\nthey danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Their\nsilence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbed\nthem of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died\nat their throats. Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding\nthe beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces,\nand the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst of all,\nthe anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic.\nPhilip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which\nfilled him.\n\nHe took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness\nof the night.\n\n\n\nL\n\n\nPhilip could not get the unhappy event out of his head. What troubled him\nmost was the uselessness of Fanny's effort. No one could have worked\nharder than she, nor with more sincerity; she believed in herself with all\nher heart; but it was plain that self-confidence meant very little, all\nhis friends had it, Miguel Ajuria among the rest; and Philip was shocked\nby the contrast between the Spaniard's heroic endeavour and the triviality\nof the thing he attempted. The unhappiness of Philip's life at school had\ncalled up in him the power of self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle as\ndrug-taking, had taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiar\nkeenness in the dissection of his feelings. He could not help seeing that\nart affected him differently from others. A fine picture gave Lawson an\nimmediate thrill. His appreciation was instinctive. Even Flanagan felt\ncertain things which Philip was obliged to think out. His own appreciation\nwas intellectual. He could not help thinking that if he had in him the\nartistic temperament (he hated the phrase, but could discover no other) he\nwould feel beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. He\nbegan to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial cleverness\nof the hand which enabled him to copy objects with accuracy. That was\nnothing. He had learned to despise technical dexterity. The important\nthing was to feel in terms of paint. Lawson painted in a certain way\nbecause it was his nature to, and through the imitativeness of a student\nsensitive to every influence, there pierced individuality. Philip looked\nat his own portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that three months had passed\nhe realised that it was no more than a servile copy of Lawson. He felt\nhimself barren. He painted with the brain, and he could not help knowing\nthat the only painting worth anything was done with the heart.\n\nHe had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would be\nnecessary for him to practise the severest economy. He could not count on\nearning anything for ten years. The history of painting was full of\nartists who had earned nothing at all. He must resign himself to penury;\nand it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he had\na terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate. Was it worth\nwhile for that to give up one's youth, and the gaiety of life, and the\nmanifold chances of being? He knew the existence of foreign painters in\nParis enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial. He\nknew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a fame\nwhich always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism.\nFanny's suicide had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of\nthe way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. He\nremembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor Fanny: it\nwould have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attempt\nwhich was hopeless.\n\nPhilip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his mind to send\nit to the Salon. Flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought he\ncould paint as well as Flanagan. He had worked so hard on the portrait\nthat he could not help feeling it must have merit. It was true that when\nhe looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he could\nnot tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was\nnot dissatisfied. He sent it to the Salon and it was refused. He did not\nmind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that there\nwas little chance that it would be taken, till Flanagan a few days later\nrushed in to tell Lawson and Philip that one of his pictures was accepted.\nWith a blank face Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was so\nbusy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony which\nPhilip could not prevent from coming into his voice. Lawson,\nquicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip curiously. His own\npicture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he was\nvaguely resentful of Philip's attitude. But he was surprised at the sudden\nquestion which Philip put him as soon as the American was gone.\n\n\"If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I wonder if it's worth while being a second-rate painter. You see, in\nother things, if you're a doctor or if you're in business, it doesn't\nmatter so much if you're mediocre. You make a living and you get along.\nBut what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?\"\n\nLawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriously\ndistressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him.\nIt was notorious that the Salon had refused pictures which were afterwards\nfamous; it was the first time Philip had sent, and he must expect a\nrebuff; Flanagan's success was explicable, his picture was showy and\nsuperficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit\nin. Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think him\ncapable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would\nnot realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his\npowers.\n\nOf late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who took\ntheir meals at Gravier's, and lived very much by himself. Flanagan said he\nwas in love with a girl, but Clutton's austere countenance did not suggest\npassion; and Philip thought it more probable that he separated himself\nfrom his friends so that he might grow clear with the new ideas which were\nin him. But that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go to\na play and Philip was sitting alone, Clutton came in and ordered dinner.\nThey began to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less sardonic\nthan usual, Philip determined to take advantage of his good humour.\n\n\"I say I wish you'd come and look at my picture,\" he said. \"I'd like to\nknow what you think of it.\"\n\n\"No, I won't do that.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Philip, reddening.\n\nThe request was one which they all made of one another, and no one ever\nthought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. Besides, what's\nthe good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is good or\nbad?\"\n\n\"It matters to me.\"\n\n\"No. The only reason that one paints is that one can't help it. It's a\nfunction like any of the other functions of the body, only comparatively\nfew people have got it. One paints for oneself: otherwise one would commit\nsuicide. Just think of it, you spend God knows how long trying to get\nsomething on to canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what\nis the result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it's\naccepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you're\nlucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look at\nit as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing\nto do with the artist. It judges objectively, but the objective doesn't\nconcern the artist.\"\n\nClutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind\non what he wanted to say.\n\n\"The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is\nimpelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his\nfeeling by lines and colours. It's like a musician; he'll read a line or\ntwo, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn't\nknow why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they\njust do. And I'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a\ngreat painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the\nnext generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then\nthe public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So the\nBarbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner,\nand when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But trees\naren't like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how a\npainter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards--if we force\nour vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignores\nus; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to greatness or to\nsmallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got\nall we could out of it while we were doing it.\"\n\nThere was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food\nthat was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him\nclosely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved\nfrom a stone refractory to the sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of dark\nhair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of\nstrength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask concealed a\nstrange weakness. Clutton's refusal to show his work might be sheer\nvanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's criticism, and he would\nnot expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted to\nbe received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work\nwhich might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the\neighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and\nbitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his\nfellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He had\nno patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms\nupon which they had been when Philip first knew them.\n\n\"Lawson's all right,\" he said contemptuously, \"he'll go back to England,\nbecome a fashionable portrait painter, earn ten thousand a year and be an\nA. R. A. before he's forty. Portraits done by hand for the nobility and\ngentry!\"\n\nPhilip, too, looked into the future, and he saw Clutton in twenty years,\nbitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in Paris, for the life there\nhad got into his bones, ruling a small cenacle with a savage tongue, at\nwar with himself and the world, producing little in his increasing passion\nfor a perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last into\ndrunkenness. Of late Philip had been captivated by an idea that since one\nhad only one life it was important to make a success of it, but he did not\ncount success by the acquiring of money or the achieving of fame; he did\nnot quite know yet what he meant by it, perhaps variety of experience and\nthe making the most of his abilities. It was plain anyway that the life\nwhich Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would\nbe the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw's\nwhimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but\nCronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear:\nhe repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself. It was\nthis desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip's\nuncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton began to\ntalk again.\n\n\"D'you remember my telling you about that chap I met in Brittany? I saw\nhim the other day here. He's just off to Tahiti. He was broke to the\nworld. He was a brasseur d'affaires, a stockbroker I suppose you call it\nin English; and he had a wife and family, and he was earning a large\nincome. He chucked it all to become a painter. He just went off and\nsettled down in Brittany and began to paint. He hadn't got any money and\ndid the next best thing to starving.\"\n\n\"And what about his wife and family?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, he dropped them. He left them to starve on their own account.\"\n\n\"It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being\nan artist. They've got nothing to do with one another. You hear of men\npainting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother--well, it shows they're\nexcellent sons, but it's no excuse for bad work. They're only tradesmen.\nAn artist would let his mother go to the workhouse. There's a writer I\nknow over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. He was in\nlove with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedside\nwatching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she looked\nand what she said and the things he was feeling. Gentlemanly, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"But is your friend a good painter?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro. He hasn't found himself, but\nhe's got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration. But that isn't the\nquestion. It's the feeling, and that he's got. He's behaved like a perfect\ncad to his wife and children, he's always behaving like a perfect cad; the\nway he treats the people who've helped him--and sometimes he's been saved\nfrom starvation merely by the kindness of his friends--is simply beastly.\nHe just happens to be a great artist.\"\n\nPhilip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything,\ncomfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on to\ncanvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him. It was\nmagnificent, and yet his courage failed him.\n\nThinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for\na week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in\nwhich he was certain to find the writer. During the first few months of\nhis stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said,\nbut Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories\nwhich resulted in no action. Cronshaw's slim bundle of poetry did not seem\na substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip could not wrench\nout of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came;\nand the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul\ntogether, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the\ncafe table, jarred with his respectability. Cronshaw was astute enough to\nknow that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his\nphilistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often very\nkeen.\n\n\"You're a tradesman,\" he told Philip, \"you want to invest life in consols\nso that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent. I'm a spendthrift, I\nrun through my capital. I shall spend my last penny with my last\nheartbeat.\"\n\nThe metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the speaker a\nromantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which Philip\ninstinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at the\nmoment.\n\nBut this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about himself.\nFortunately it was late already and Cronshaw's pile of saucers on the\ntable, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an\nindependent view of things in general.\n\n\"I wonder if you'd give me some advice,\" said Philip suddenly.\n\n\"You won't take it, will you?\"\n\nPhilip shrugged his shoulders impatiently.\n\n\"I don't believe I shall ever do much good as a painter. I don't see any\nuse in being second-rate. I'm thinking of chucking it.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't you?\"\n\nPhilip hesitated for an instant.\n\n\"I suppose I like the life.\"\n\nA change came over Cronshaw's placid, round face. The corners of the mouth\nwere suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to\nbecome strangely bowed and old.\n\n\"This?\" he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. His voice\nreally trembled a little.\n\n\"If you can get out of it, do while there's time.\"\n\nPhilip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion always\nmade him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. He knew that he was looking\nupon the tragedy of failure. There was silence. Philip thought that\nCronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered his\nyouth with its bright hopes and the disappointments which wore out the\nradiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future.\nPhilip's eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that\nCronshaw's were on them too.\n\n\n\nLI\n\n\nTwo months passed.\n\nIt seemed to Philip, brooding over these matters, that in the true\npainters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove them to such\ncomplete absorption in their work as to make it inevitable for them to\nsubordinate life to art. Succumbing to an influence they never realised,\nthey were merely dupes of the instinct that possessed them, and life\nslipped through their fingers unlived. But he had a feeling that life was\nto be lived rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the various\nexperiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion that it\noffered. He made up his mind at length to take a certain step and abide by\nthe result, and, having made up his mind, he determined to take the step\nat once. Luckily enough the next morning was one of Foinet's days, and he\nresolved to ask him point-blank whether it was worth his while to go on\nwith the study of art. He had never forgotten the master's brutal advice\nto Fanny Price. It had been sound. Philip could never get Fanny entirely\nout of his head. The studio seemed strange without her, and now and then\nthe gesture of one of the women working there or the tone of a voice would\ngive him a sudden start, reminding him of her: her presence was more\nnoticable now she was dead than it had ever been during her life; and he\noften dreamed of her at night, waking with a cry of terror. It was\nhorrible to think of all the suffering she must have endured.\n\nPhilip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a\nlittle restaurant in the Rue d'Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that\nhe could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip walked up\nand down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with\nbent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to\ngo up to him.\n\n\"Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment.\"\n\nFoinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a\ngreeting.\n\n\"Speak,\" he said.\n\n\"I've been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to ask\nyou to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue.\"\n\nPhilip's voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without looking\nup. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it.\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"I'm very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else.\"\n\n\"Don't you know if you have talent?\"\n\n\"All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are\nmistaken.\"\n\nFoinet's bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked:\n\n\"Do you live near here?\"\n\nPhilip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round.\n\n\"Let us go there? You shall show me your work.\"\n\n\"Now?\" cried Philip.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\nPhilip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master's side. He\nfelt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to see\nhis things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare\nhimself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whether\nhe might bring them to Foinet's studio. He was trembling with anxiety. In\nhis heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare\nsmile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip's hand and say:\n\"Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You have talent, real talent.\" Philip's heart\nswelled at the thought. It was such a relief, such a joy! Now he could go\non with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, and\ndisappointment, if he arrived at last? He had worked very hard, it would\nbe too cruel if all that industry were futile. And then with a start he\nremembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that. They arrived at\nthe house, and Philip was seized with fear. If he had dared he would have\nasked Foinet to go away. He did not want to know the truth. They went in\nand the concierge handed him a letter as they passed. He glanced at the\nenvelope and recognised his uncle's handwriting. Foinet followed him up\nthe stairs. Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the\nsilence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without a\nword placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet\nnodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he had\nmade of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at\nMoret, and a number of sketches.\n\n\"That's all,\" he said presently, with a nervous laugh.\n\nMonsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.\n\n\"You have very little private means?\" he asked at last.\n\n\"Very little,\" answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his\nheart. \"Not enough to live on.\"\n\n\"There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means\nof livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise\nmoney. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without\nwhich you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an\nadequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only\nthing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for\nthe shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best\nspur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh.\nThey do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless\nhumiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It\nis not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to\nwork unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all\nmy heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely\ndependent for subsistence upon his art.\"\n\nPhilip quietly put away the various things which he had shown.\n\n\"I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much chance.\"\n\nMonsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance\nthere is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent\npainter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who\npainted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I see\nindustry and intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre.\"\n\nPhilip obliged himself to answer quite steadily.\n\n\"I'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can't thank\nyou enough.\"\n\nMonsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and,\nstopping, put his hand on Philip's shoulder.\n\n\"But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in\nboth hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but\nlet me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if someone had\ngiven me that advice when I was your age and I had taken it.\"\n\nPhilip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a\nsmile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.\n\n\"It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. It\ndoes not improve the temper.\"\n\nHe gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of\nthe room.\n\nPhilip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his\nhandwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him.\nShe had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over\nto England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work,\nhad refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she\nsaid she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay\nat the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worse\nshe would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him\nagain. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to\nhold a pen. Philip opened the letter. It ran as follows:\n\nMy dear Philip,\n\nI regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early this\nmorning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change for the\nworse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was fully\nprepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance of\na blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our\nblessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be present at\nthe funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you can. There is\nnaturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and I am very much\nupset. I trust that you will be able to do everything for me.\n                          Your affectionate uncle,\n                                                    William Carey.\n\n\n\nLII\n\n\nNext day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother he\nhad never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt's death shocked\nhim and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time\nhis own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his uncle\nwithout the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended\nhim for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless\ngrief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing\nwhich would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of apposite\nspeeches.\n\nHe entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room.\nUncle William was reading the paper.\n\n\"Your train was late,\" he said, looking up.\n\nPhilip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact\nreception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper.\n\n\"There's a very nice little paragraph about her in The Blackstable\nTimes,\" he said.\n\nPhilip read it mechanically.\n\n\"Would you like to come up and see her?\"\n\nPhilip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying in\nthe middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her.\n\n\"Would you like to say a short prayer?\" said the Vicar.\n\nHe sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip followed\nhis example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was only\nconscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gave\na cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed.\n\n\"That's from the Squire,\" he said. He spoke in a low voice as though he\nwere in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite\nat home. \"I expect tea is ready.\"\n\nThey went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave a\nlugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife\nhad always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could not help\nfeeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but\nwhen he saw that his uncle's appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his\nusual heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself to\neat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent.\n\n\"Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate,\" said the Vicar\npresently. \"In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair\nof black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa used\nto make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gave\nher a new dress.\"\n\nThen he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them\nalready; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she\nhad had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day;\nthe funeral would start at eleven o'clock from the vicarage, and they\nshould beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson.\n\n\"I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let\nanyone else bury her.\"\n\nPhilip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of\ncake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy.\n\n\"Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I'm afraid no one else will make\nsuch good ones.\"\n\n\"She's not going?\" cried Philip, with astonishment.\n\nMary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She never\nforgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle,\nabsurd but touching. He had a real affection for her.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Mr. Carey. \"I didn't think it would do to have a single\nwoman in the house.\"\n\n\"But, good heavens, she must be over forty.\"\n\n\"Yes, I think she is. But she's been rather troublesome lately, she's been\ninclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good\nopportunity to give her notice.\"\n\n\"It's certainly one which isn't likely to recur,\" said Philip.\n\nHe took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it.\n\n\"Not till after the funeral, Philip,\" he said gently.\n\n\"All right,\" said Philip.\n\n\"It wouldn't be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your\npoor Aunt Louisa is upstairs.\"\n\n\nJosiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner\nat the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up, and\nPhilip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body in\nthe house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all\nthat was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room,\ncold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful\ninfluence. The thought horrified Philip.\n\nHe found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the\nchurchwarden.\n\n\"I hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while,\" he said. \"I don't\nthink he ought to be left alone just yet.\"\n\n\"I haven't made any plans,\" answered Philip. \"If he wants me I shall be\nvery pleased to stay.\"\n\nBy way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner\ntalked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed the\nWesleyan chapel.\n\n\"I hear they weren't insured,\" he said, with a little smile.\n\n\"That won't make any difference,\" said the Vicar. \"They'll get as much\nmoney as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to give\nmoney.\"\n\n\"I see that Holden sent a wreath.\"\n\nHolden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ's sake who died\nfor both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak\nto him.\n\n\"I think it was very pushing,\" he remarked. \"There were forty-one wreaths.\nYours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it very much.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it,\" said the banker.\n\nHe had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone's else. It\nhad looked very well. They began to discuss the people who attended the\nfuneral. Shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out of\nhis pocket the notice which had been printed: \"Owing to the funeral of\nMrs. Carey this establishment will not be opened till one o'clock.\"\n\n\"It was my idea,\" he said.\n\n\"I think it was very nice of them to close,\" said the Vicar. \"Poor Louisa\nwould have appreciated that.\"\n\nPhilip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday, and they\nhad roast chicken and a gooseberry tart.\n\n\"I suppose you haven't thought about a tombstone yet?\" said the\nchurchwarden.\n\n\"Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was always against\nostentation.\"\n\n\"I don't think one can do much better than a cross. If you're thinking of\na text, what do you say to: With Christ, which is far better?\"\n\nThe Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and settle\neverything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed to cast an\naspersion on himself.\n\n\"I don't think I should put that. I much prefer: The Lord has given and\nthe Lord has taken away.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent.\"\n\nThe Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in a tone\nwhich the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. Things were\ngoing rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife's\ntombstone. There was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parish\nmatters. Philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench,\nand suddenly began to laugh hysterically.\n\nA few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the next\nfew weeks at Blackstable.\n\n\"Yes, that will suit me very well,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I suppose it'll do if you go back to Paris in September.\"\n\nPhilip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but\nhe was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future.\nThere would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced\nthat he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to\nhimself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want\nto confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the\nsuspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined\nto force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that\ndirection. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. This\nmight have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning\nthe study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden\nsee things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the\nChannel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. The\nlife which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now\nseemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants\nwith their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He did\nnot care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his\nrhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her\naffectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion\nfrom them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his\nbelongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases he\nfound himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the\nfact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though he\nhad so greatly disapproved of Philip's desire to go to Paris, he accepted\nthe situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of\nstudents and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact a\nlittle proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present\nmade attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of models\nwhich Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel\nAjuria.\n\n\"Why did you paint him?\" asked Mr. Carey.\n\n\"Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me.\"\n\n\"As you haven't got anything to do here I wonder you don't paint me.\"\n\n\"It would bore you to sit.\"\n\n\"I think I should like it.\"\n\n\"We must see about it.\"\n\nPhilip was amused at his uncle's vanity. It was clear that he was dying to\nhave his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance not\nto be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. He\nreproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work,\nand finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint\nhim. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to\nPhilip:\n\n\"Now, what d'you say to starting on my portrait this morning?\" Philip put\ndown the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair.\n\n\"I've given up painting,\" he said.\n\n\"Why?\" asked his uncle in astonishment.\n\n\"I don't think there's much object in being a second-rate painter, and I\ncame to the conclusion that I should never be anything else.\"\n\n\"You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that you\nwere a genius.\"\n\n\"I was mistaken,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I should have thought now you'd taken up a profession you'd have the\npride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance.\"\n\nPhilip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly\nheroic his determination was.\n\n\"'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'\" proceeded the clergyman. Philip hated\nthat proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. His\nuncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his\ndeparture from business. Apparently it recalled that occasion to his\nguardian.\n\n\"You're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling\ndown. First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you\nget tired of that and you want to become a painter. And now if you please\nyou change your mind again. It points to...\"\n\nHe hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it\nindicated, and Philip finished the sentence.\n\n\"Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of\ndetermination.\"\n\nThe Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing\nat him. Philip's face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes\nwhich irritated him. Philip should really be getting more serious. He felt\nit right to give him a rap over the knuckles.\n\n\"Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You're your own\nmaster; but I think you should remember that your money won't last for\never, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't exactly make it easier\nfor you to earn your living.\"\n\nPhilip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first\nthought was to say something about his club-foot. His estimate of the\nhuman race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to\nresist the temptation. But he had trained himself not to show any sign\nthat the reminder wounded him. He had even acquired control over the\nblushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments.\n\n\"As you justly remark,\" he answered, \"my money matters have nothing to do\nwith you and I am my own master.\"\n\n\"At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I was\njustified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an\nart-student.\"\n\n\"I don't know so much about that. I daresay one profits more by the\nmistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the right thing on\nsomebody's else advice. I've had my fling, and I don't mind settling down\nnow.\"\n\n\"What at?\"\n\nPhilip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made up\nhis mind. He had thought of a dozen callings.\n\n\"The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father's profession\nand become a doctor.\"\n\n\"Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend.\"\n\nHe had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was an\noccupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and his\nexperience of life in an office had made him determine never to have\nanything more to do with one; his answer to the Vicar slipped out almost\nunawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to\nmake up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to\nenter his father's old hospital in the autumn.\n\n\"Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?\"\n\n\"I don't know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I learned one\nor two useful things.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nPhilip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentle\ndesire to annoy.\n\n\"I learned to look at hands, which I'd never looked at before. And instead\nof just looking at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and trees\nagainst the sky. And I learned also that shadows are not black but\ncoloured.\"\n\n\"I suppose you think you're very clever. I think your flippancy is quite\ninane.\"\n\n\n\nLIII\n\n\nTaking the paper with him Mr. Carey retired to his study. Philip changed\nhis chair for that in which his uncle had been sitting (it was the only\ncomfortable one in the room), and looked out of the window at the pouring\nrain. Even in that sad weather there was something restful about the green\nfields that stretched to the horizon. There was an intimate charm in the\nlandscape which he did not remember ever to have noticed before. Two years\nin France had opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside.\n\nHe thought with a smile of his uncle's remark. It was lucky that the turn\nof his mind tended to flippancy. He had begun to realise what a great loss\nhe had sustained in the death of his father and mother. That was one of\nthe differences in his life which prevented him from seeing things in the\nsame way as other people. The love of parents for their children is the\nonly emotion which is quite disinterested. Among strangers he had grown up\nas best he could, but he had seldom been used with patience or\nforbearance. He prided himself on his self-control. It had been whipped\ninto him by the mockery of his fellows. Then they called him cynical and\ncallous. He had acquired calmness of demeanour and under most\ncircumstances an unruffled exterior, so that now he could not show his\nfeelings. People told him he was unemotional; but he knew that he was at\nthe mercy of his emotions: an accidental kindness touched him so much that\nsometimes he did not venture to speak in order not to betray the\nunsteadiness of his voice. He remembered the bitterness of his life at\nschool, the humiliation which he had endured, the banter which had made\nhim morbidly afraid of making himself ridiculous; and he remembered the\nloneliness he had felt since, faced with the world, the disillusion and\nthe disappointment caused by the difference between what it promised to\nhis active imagination and what it gave. But notwithstanding he was able\nto look at himself from the outside and smile with amusement.\n\n\"By Jove, if I weren't flippant, I should hang myself,\" he thought\ncheerfully.\n\nHis mind went back to the answer he had given his uncle when he asked him\nwhat he had learnt in Paris. He had learnt a good deal more than he told\nhim. A conversation with Cronshaw had stuck in his memory, and one phrase\nhe had used, a commonplace one enough, had set his brain working.\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" Cronshaw said, \"there's no such thing as abstract\nmorality.\"\n\nWhen Philip ceased to believe in Christianity he felt that a great weight\nwas taken from his shoulders; casting off the responsibility which weighed\ndown every action, when every action was infinitely important for the\nwelfare of his immortal soul, he experienced a vivid sense of liberty. But\nhe knew now that this was an illusion. When he put away the religion in\nwhich he had been brought up, he had kept unimpaired the morality which\nwas part and parcel of it. He made up his mind therefore to think things\nout for himself. He determined to be swayed by no prejudices. He swept\naway the virtues and the vices, the established laws of good and evil,\nwith the idea of finding out the rules of life for himself. He did not\nknow whether rules were necessary at all. That was one of the things he\nwanted to discover. Clearly much that seemed valid seemed so only because\nhe had been taught it from his earliest youth. He had read a number of\nbooks, but they did not help him much, for they were based on the morality\nof Christianity; and even the writers who emphasised the fact that they\ndid not believe in it were never satisfied till they had framed a system\nof ethics in accordance with that of the Sermon on the Mount. It seemed\nhardly worth while to read a long volume in order to learn that you ought\nto behave exactly like everybody else. Philip wanted to find out how he\nought to behave, and he thought he could prevent himself from being\ninfluenced by the opinions that surrounded him. But meanwhile he had to go\non living, and, until he formed a theory of conduct, he made himself a\nprovisional rule.\n\n\"Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman round the\ncorner.\"\n\nHe thought the best thing he had gained in Paris was a complete liberty of\nspirit, and he felt himself at last absolutely free. In a desultory way he\nhad read a good deal of philosophy, and he looked forward with delight to\nthe leisure of the next few months. He began to read at haphazard. He\nentered upon each system with a little thrill of excitement, expecting to\nfind in each some guide by which he could rule his conduct; he felt\nhimself like a traveller in unknown countries and as he pushed forward the\nenterprise fascinated him; he read emotionally, as other men read pure\nliterature, and his heart leaped as he discovered in noble words what\nhimself had obscurely felt. His mind was concrete and moved with\ndifficulty in regions of the abstract; but, even when he could not follow\nthe reasoning, it gave him a curious pleasure to follow the tortuosities\nof thoughts that threaded their nimble way on the edge of the\nincomprehensible. Sometimes great philosophers seemed to have nothing to\nsay to him, but at others he recognised a mind with which he felt himself\nat home. He was like the explorer in Central Africa who comes suddenly\nupon wide uplands, with great trees in them and stretches of meadow, so\nthat he might fancy himself in an English park. He delighted in the robust\ncommon sense of Thomas Hobbes; Spinoza filled him with awe, he had never\nbefore come in contact with a mind so noble, so unapproachable and\naustere; it reminded him of that statue by Rodin, L'Age d'Airain, which\nhe passionately admired; and then there was Hume: the scepticism of that\ncharming philosopher touched a kindred note in Philip; and, revelling in\nthe lucid style which seemed able to put complicated thought into simple\nwords, musical and measured, he read as he might have read a novel, a\nsmile of pleasure on his lips. But in none could he find exactly what he\nwanted. He had read somewhere that every man was born a Platonist, an\nAristotelian, a Stoic, or an Epicurean; and the history of George Henry\nLewes (besides telling you that philosophy was all moonshine) was there to\nshow that the thought of each philosopher was inseparably connected with\nthe man he was. When you knew that you could guess to a great extent the\nphilosophy he wrote. It looked as though you did not act in a certain way\nbecause you thought in a certain way, but rather that you thought in a\ncertain way because you were made in a certain way. Truth had nothing to\ndo with it. There was no such thing as truth. Each man was his own\nphilosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of the past had\ncomposed were only valid for the writers.\n\nThe thing then was to discover what one was and one's system of philosophy\nwould devise itself. It seemed to Philip that there were three things to\nfind out: man's relation to the world he lives in, man's relation with the\nmen among whom he lives, and finally man's relation to himself. He made an\nelaborate plan of study.\n\nThe advantage of living abroad is that, coming in contact with the manners\nand customs of the people among whom you live, you observe them from the\noutside and see that they have not the necessity which those who practise\nthem believe. You cannot fail to discover that the beliefs which to you\nare self-evident to the foreigner are absurd. The year in Germany, the\nlong stay in Paris, had prepared Philip to receive the sceptical teaching\nwhich came to him now with such a feeling of relief. He saw that nothing\nwas good and nothing was evil; things were merely adapted to an end. He\nread The Origin of Species. It seemed to offer an explanation of much\nthat troubled him. He was like an explorer now who has reasoned that\ncertain natural features must present themselves, and, beating up a broad\nriver, finds here the tributary that he expected, there the fertile,\npopulated plains, and further on the mountains. When some great discovery\nis made the world is surprised afterwards that it was not accepted at\nonce, and even on those who acknowledge its truth the effect is\nunimportant. The first readers of The Origin of Species accepted it with\ntheir reason; but their emotions, which are the ground of conduct, were\nuntouched. Philip was born a generation after this great book was\npublished, and much that horrified its contemporaries had passed into the\nfeeling of the time, so that he was able to accept it with a joyful heart.\nHe was intensely moved by the grandeur of the struggle for life, and the\nethical rule which it suggested seemed to fit in with his predispositions.\nHe said to himself that might was right. Society stood on one side, an\norganism with its own laws of growth and self-preservation, while the\nindividual stood on the other. The actions which were to the advantage of\nsociety it termed virtuous and those which were not it called vicious.\nGood and evil meant nothing more than that. Sin was a prejudice from which\nthe free man should rid himself. Society had three arms in its contest\nwith the individual, laws, public opinion, and conscience: the first two\ncould be met by guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the\nstrong: common opinion put the matter well when it stated that sin\nconsisted in being found out; but conscience was the traitor within the\ngates; it fought in each heart the battle of society, and caused the\nindividual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice, to the prosperity of his\nenemy. For it was clear that the two were irreconcilable, the state and\nthe individual conscious of himself. THAT uses the individual for its\nown ends, trampling upon him if he thwarts it, rewarding him with medals,\npensions, honours, when he serves it faithfully; THIS, strong only in\nhis independence, threads his way through the state, for convenience'\nsake, paying in money or service for certain benefits, but with no sense\nof obligation; and, indifferent to the rewards, asks only to be left\nalone. He is the independent traveller, who uses Cook's tickets because\nthey save trouble, but looks with good-humoured contempt on the personally\nconducted parties. The free man can do no wrong. He does everything he\nlikes--if he can. His power is the only measure of his morality. He\nrecognises the laws of the state and he can break them without sense of\nsin, but if he is punished he accepts the punishment without rancour.\nSociety has the power.\n\nBut if for the individual there was no right and no wrong, then it seemed\nto Philip that conscience lost its power. It was with a cry of triumph\nthat he seized the knave and flung him from his breast. But he was no\nnearer to the meaning of life than he had been before. Why the world was\nthere and what men had come into existence for at all was as inexplicable\nas ever. Surely there must be some reason. He thought of Cronshaw's\nparable of the Persian carpet. He offered it as a solution of the riddle,\nand mysteriously he stated that it was no answer at all unless you found\nit out for yourself.\n\n\"I wonder what the devil he meant,\" Philip smiled.\n\nAnd so, on the last day of September, eager to put into practice all these\nnew theories of life, Philip, with sixteen hundred pounds and his\nclub-foot, set out for the second time to London to make his third start\nin life.\n\n\n\nLIV\n\n\nThe examination Philip had passed before he was articled to a chartered\naccountant was sufficient qualification for him to enter a medical school.\nHe chose St. Luke's because his father had been a student there, and\nbefore the end of the summer session had gone up to London for a day in\norder to see the secretary. He got a list of rooms from him, and took\nlodgings in a dingy house which had the advantage of being within two\nminutes' walk of the hospital.\n\n\"You'll have to arrange about a part to dissect,\" the secretary told him.\n\"You'd better start on a leg; they generally do; they seem to think it\neasier.\"\n\nPhilip found that his first lecture was in anatomy, at eleven, and about\nhalf past ten he limped across the road, and a little nervously made his\nway to the Medical School. Just inside the door a number of notices were\npinned up, lists of lectures, football fixtures, and the like; and these\nhe looked at idly, trying to seem at his ease. Young men and boys dribbled\nin and looked for letters in the rack, chatted with one another, and\npassed downstairs to the basement, in which was the student's\nreading-room. Philip saw several fellows with a desultory, timid look\ndawdling around, and surmised that, like himself, they were there for the\nfirst time. When he had exhausted the notices he saw a glass door which\nled into what was apparently a museum, and having still twenty minutes to\nspare he walked in. It was a collection of pathological specimens.\nPresently a boy of about eighteen came up to him.\n\n\"I say, are you first year?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"Where's the lecture room, d'you know? It's getting on for eleven.\"\n\n\"We'd better try to find it.\"\n\nThey walked out of the museum into a long, dark corridor, with the walls\npainted in two shades of red, and other youths walking along suggested the\nway to them. They came to a door marked Anatomy Theatre. Philip found that\nthere were a good many people already there. The seats were arranged in\ntiers, and just as Philip entered an attendant came in, put a glass of\nwater on the table in the well of the lecture-room and then brought in a\npelvis and two thigh-bones, right and left. More men entered and took\ntheir seats and by eleven the theatre was fairly full. There were about\nsixty students. For the most part they were a good deal younger than\nPhilip, smooth-faced boys of eighteen, but there were a few who were older\nthan he: he noticed one tall man, with a fierce red moustache, who might\nhave been thirty; another little fellow with black hair, only a year or\ntwo younger; and there was one man with spectacles and a beard which was\nquite gray.\n\nThe lecturer came in, Mr. Cameron, a handsome man with white hair and\nclean-cut features. He called out the long list of names. Then he made a\nlittle speech. He spoke in a pleasant voice, with well-chosen words, and\nhe seemed to take a discreet pleasure in their careful arrangement. He\nsuggested one or two books which they might buy and advised the purchase\nof a skeleton. He spoke of anatomy with enthusiasm: it was essential to\nthe study of surgery; a knowledge of it added to the appreciation of art.\nPhilip pricked up his ears. He heard later that Mr. Cameron lectured also\nto the students at the Royal Academy. He had lived many years in Japan,\nwith a post at the University of Tokyo, and he flattered himself on his\nappreciation of the beautiful.\n\n\"You will have to learn many tedious things,\" he finished, with an\nindulgent smile, \"which you will forget the moment you have passed your\nfinal examination, but in anatomy it is better to have learned and lost\nthan never to have learned at all.\"\n\nHe took up the pelvis which was lying on the table and began to describe\nit. He spoke well and clearly.\n\nAt the end of the lecture the boy who had spoken to Philip in the\npathological museum and sat next to him in the theatre suggested that they\nshould go to the dissecting-room. Philip and he walked along the corridor\nagain, and an attendant told them where it was. As soon as they entered\nPhilip understood what the acrid smell was which he had noticed in the\npassage. He lit a pipe. The attendant gave a short laugh.\n\n\"You'll soon get used to the smell. I don't notice it myself.\"\n\nHe asked Philip's name and looked at a list on the board.\n\n\"You've got a leg--number four.\"\n\nPhilip saw that another name was bracketed with his own.\n\n\"What's the meaning of that?\" he asked.\n\n\"We're very short of bodies just now. We've had to put two on each part.\"\n\nThe dissecting-room was a large apartment painted like the corridors, the\nupper part a rich salmon and the dado a dark terra-cotta. At regular\nintervals down the long sides of the room, at right angles with the wall,\nwere iron slabs, grooved like meat-dishes; and on each lay a body. Most of\nthem were men. They were very dark from the preservative in which they had\nbeen kept, and the skin had almost the look of leather. They were\nextremely emaciated. The attendant took Philip up to one of the slabs. A\nyouth was standing by it.\n\n\"Is your name Carey?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Oh, then we've got this leg together. It's lucky it's a man, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"They generally always like a male better,\" said the attendant. \"A\nfemale's liable to have a lot of fat about her.\"\n\nPhilip looked at the body. The arms and legs were so thin that there was\nno shape in them, and the ribs stood out so that the skin over them was\ntense. A man of about forty-five with a thin, gray beard, and on his skull\nscanty, colourless hair: the eyes were closed and the lower jaw sunken.\nPhilip could not feel that this had ever been a man, and yet in the row of\nthem there was something terrible and ghastly.\n\n\"I thought I'd start at two,\" said the young man who was dissecting with\nPhilip.\n\n\"All right, I'll be here then.\"\n\nHe had bought the day before the case of instruments which was needful,\nand now he was given a locker. He looked at the boy who had accompanied\nhim into the dissecting-room and saw that he was white.\n\n\"Make you feel rotten?\" Philip asked him.\n\n\"I've never seen anyone dead before.\"\n\nThey walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of the\nschool. Philip remembered Fanny Price. She was the first dead person he\nhad ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it had affected him. There\nwas an immeasurable distance between the quick and the dead: they did not\nseem to belong to the same species; and it was strange to think that but\na little while before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed.\nThere was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine that\nthey might cast an evil influence on the living.\n\n\"What d'you say to having something to eat?\" said his new friend to\nPhilip.\n\nThey went down into the basement, where there was a dark room fitted up as\na restaurant, and here the students were able to get the same sort of fare\nas they might have at an aerated bread shop. While they ate (Philip had a\nscone and butter and a cup of chocolate), he discovered that his companion\nwas called Dunsford. He was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue\neyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and movement. He\nhad just come from Clifton.\n\n\"Are you taking the Conjoint?\" he asked Philip.\n\n\"Yes, I want to get qualified as soon as I can.\"\n\n\"I'm taking it too, but I shall take the F. R. C. S. afterwards. I'm going\nin for surgery.\"\n\nMost of the students took the curriculum of the Conjoint Board of the\nCollege of Surgeons and the College of Physicians; but the more ambitious\nor the more industrious added to this the longer studies which led to a\ndegree from the University of London. When Philip went to St. Luke's\nchanges had recently been made in the regulations, and the course took\nfive years instead of four as it had done for those who registered before\nthe autumn of 1892. Dunsford was well up in his plans and told Philip the\nusual course of events. The \"first conjoint\" examination consisted of\nbiology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it could be taken in sections, and\nmost fellows took their biology three months after entering the school.\nThis science had been recently added to the list of subjects upon which\nthe student was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge\nrequired was very small.\n\nWhen Philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few minutes late,\nsince he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves which they wore to protect\ntheir shirts, and he found a number of men already working. His partner\nhad started on the minute and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves.\nTwo others were engaged on the second leg, and more were occupied with the\narms.\n\n\"You don't mind my having started?\"\n\n\"That's all right, fire away,\" said Philip.\n\nHe took the book, open at a diagram of the dissected part, and looked at\nwhat they had to find.\n\n\"You're rather a dab at this,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Oh, I've done a good deal of dissecting before, animals, you know, for\nthe Pre Sci.\"\n\nThere was a certain amount of conversation over the dissecting-table,\npartly about the work, partly about the prospects of the football season,\nthe demonstrators, and the lectures. Philip felt himself a great deal\nolder than the others. They were raw schoolboys. But age is a matter of\nknowledge rather than of years; and Newson, the active young man who was\ndissecting with him, was very much at home with his subject. He was\nperhaps not sorry to show off, and he explained very fully to Philip what\nhe was about. Philip, notwithstanding his hidden stores of wisdom,\nlistened meekly. Then Philip took up the scalpel and the tweezers and\nbegan working while the other looked on.\n\n\"Ripping to have him so thin,\" said Newson, wiping his hands. \"The\nblighter can't have had anything to eat for a month.\"\n\n\"I wonder what he died of,\" murmured Philip.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, any old thing, starvation chiefly, I suppose.... I say,\nlook out, don't cut that artery.\"\n\n\"It's all very fine to say, don't cut that artery,\" remarked one of the\nmen working on the opposite leg. \"Silly old fool's got an artery in the\nwrong place.\"\n\n\"Arteries always are in the wrong place,\" said Newson. \"The normal's the\none thing you practically never get. That's why it's called the normal.\"\n\n\"Don't say things like that,\" said Philip, \"or I shall cut myself.\"\n\n\"If you cut yourself,\" answered Newson, full of information, \"wash it at\nonce with antiseptic. It's the one thing you've got to be careful about.\nThere was a chap here last year who gave himself only a prick, and he\ndidn't bother about it, and he got septicaemia.\"\n\n\"Did he get all right?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, he died in a week. I went and had a look at him in the P. M.\nroom.\"\n\nPhilip's back ached by the time it was proper to have tea, and his\nluncheon had been so light that he was quite ready for it. His hands smelt\nof that peculiar odour which he had first noticed that morning in the\ncorridor. He thought his muffin tasted of it too.\n\n\"Oh, you'll get used to that,\" said Newson. \"When you don't have the good\nold dissecting-room stink about, you feel quite lonely.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to let it spoil my appetite,\" said Philip, as he followed\nup the muffin with a piece of cake.\n\n\n\nLV\n\n\nPhilip's ideas of the life of medical students, like those of the public\nat large, were founded on the pictures which Charles Dickens drew in the\nmiddle of the nineteenth century. He soon discovered that Bob Sawyer, if\nhe ever existed, was no longer at all like the medical student of the\npresent.\n\nIt is a mixed lot which enters upon the medical profession, and naturally\nthere are some who are lazy and reckless. They think it is an easy life,\nidle away a couple of years; and then, because their funds come to an end\nor because angry parents refuse any longer to support them, drift away\nfrom the hospital. Others find the examinations too hard for them; one\nfailure after another robs them of their nerve; and, panic-stricken, they\nforget as soon as they come into the forbidding buildings of the Conjoint\nBoard the knowledge which before they had so pat. They remain year after\nyear, objects of good-humoured scorn to younger men: some of them crawl\nthrough the examination of the Apothecaries Hall; others become\nnon-qualified assistants, a precarious position in which they are at the\nmercy of their employer; their lot is poverty, drunkenness, and Heaven\nonly knows their end. But for the most part medical students are\nindustrious young men of the middle-class with a sufficient allowance to\nlive in the respectable fashion they have been used to; many are the sons\nof doctors who have already something of the professional manner; their\ncareer is mapped out: as soon as they are qualified they propose to apply\nfor a hospital appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the\nFar East as a ship's doctor), they will join their father and spend the\nrest of their days in a country practice. One or two are marked out as\nexceptionally brilliant: they will take the various prizes and\nscholarships which are open each year to the deserving, get one\nappointment after another at the hospital, go on the staff, take a\nconsulting-room in Harley Street, and, specialising in one subject or\nanother, become prosperous, eminent, and titled.\n\nThe medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age\nwith some chance of making a living. Among the men of Philip's year were\nthree or four who were past their first youth: one had been in the Navy,\nfrom which according to report he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he\nwas a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice.\nAnother was a married man with two children, who had lost money through a\ndefaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were too much\nfor him; he went about his work silently, and it was plain that he found\nit difficult at his age to commit facts to memory. His mind worked slowly.\nHis effort at application was painful to see.\n\nPhilip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. He arranged his books and\nhung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed. Above him,\non the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called Griffiths; but\nPhilip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied chiefly in the\nwards and partly because he had been to Oxford. Such of the students as\nhad been to a university kept a good deal together: they used a variety of\nmeans natural to the young in order to impress upon the less fortunate a\nproper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the students found their\nOlympian serenity rather hard to bear. Griffiths was a tall fellow, with\na quantity of curly red hair and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red\nmouth; he was one of those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he\nhad high spirits and a constant gaiety. He strummed a little on the piano\nand sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening, while Philip\nwas reading in his solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious\nlaughter of Griffiths' friends above him. He thought of those delightful\nevenings in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he,\nFlanagan and Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the\npresent, and the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that\nit was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results.\nThe worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious. He had got\nout of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators. His attention\nwandered at lectures. Anatomy was a dreary science, a mere matter of\nlearning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection bored him; he\ndid not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when\nwith much less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the\nspecimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were.\n\nHe made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to have\nnothing in particular to say to his companions. When he tried to interest\nhimself in their concerns, he felt that they found him patronising. He was\nnot of those who can talk of what moves them without caring whether it\nbores or not the people they talk to. One man, hearing that he had studied\nart in Paris, and fancying himself on his taste, tried to discuss art with\nhim; but Philip was impatient of views which did not agree with his own;\nand, finding quickly that the other's ideas were conventional, grew\nmonosyllabic. Philip desired popularity but could bring himself to make no\nadvances to others. A fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and he\nconcealed his shyness, which was still intense, under a frigid\ntaciturnity. He was going through the same experience as he had done at\nschool, but here the freedom of the medical students' life made it\npossible for him to live a good deal by himself.\n\nIt was through no effort of his that he became friendly with Dunsford, the\nfresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance he had made at the\nbeginning of the session. Dunsford attached himself to Philip merely\nbecause he was the first person he had known at St. Luke's. He had no\nfriends in London, and on Saturday nights he and Philip got into the habit\nof going together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a theatre.\nHe was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took offence; he always\nsaid the obvious thing, but when Philip laughed at him merely smiled. He\nhad a very sweet smile. Though Philip made him his butt, he liked him; he\nwas amused by his candour and delighted with his agreeable nature:\nDunsford had the charm which himself was acutely conscious of not\npossessing.\n\nThey often went to have tea at a shop in Parliament Street, because\nDunsford admired one of the young women who waited. Philip did not find\nanything attractive in her. She was tall and thin, with narrow hips and\nthe chest of a boy.\n\n\"No one would look at her in Paris,\" said Philip scornfully.\n\n\"She's got a ripping face,\" said Dunsford.\n\n\"What DOES the face matter?\"\n\nShe had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad low brow,\nwhich the Victorian painters, Lord Leighton, Alma Tadema, and a hundred\nothers, induced the world they lived in to accept as a type of Greek\nbeauty. She seemed to have a great deal of hair: it was arranged with\npeculiar elaboration and done over the forehead in what she called an\nAlexandra fringe. She was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and her\nskin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even in\nthe cheeks. She had very good teeth. She took great pains to prevent her\nwork from spoiling her hands, and they were small, thin, and white. She\nwent about her duties with a bored look.\n\nDunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting into\nconversation with her; and he urged Philip to help him.\n\n\"All I want is a lead,\" he said, \"and then I can manage for myself.\"\n\nPhilip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered with\nmonosyllables. She had taken their measure. They were boys, and she\nsurmised they were students. She had no use for them. Dunsford noticed\nthat a man with sandy hair and a bristly moustache, who looked like a\nGerman, was favoured with her attention whenever he came into the shop;\nand then it was only by calling her two or three times that they could\ninduce her to take their order. She used the clients whom she did not know\nwith frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was perfectly\nindifferent to the calls of the hurried. She had the art of treating women\nwho desired refreshment with just that degree of impertinence which\nirritated them without affording them an opportunity of complaining to the\nmanagement. One day Dunsford told him her name was Mildred. He had heard\none of the other girls in the shop address her.\n\n\"What an odious name,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Why?\" asked Dunsford.\n\n\"I like it.\"\n\n\"It's so pretentious.\"\n\nIt chanced that on this day the German was not there, and, when she\nbrought the tea, Philip, smiling, remarked:\n\n\"Your friend's not here today.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" she said coldly.\n\n\"I was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. Has he left you\nfor another?\"\n\n\"Some people would do better to mind their own business,\" she retorted.\n\nShe left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one to attend\nto, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a customer had left\nbehind him.\n\n\"You are a fool to put her back up,\" said Dunsford.\n\n\"I'm really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae,\" replied\nPhilip.\n\nBut he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable\nwith a woman she should take offence. When he asked for the bill, he\nhazarded a remark which he meant to lead further.\n\n\"Are we no longer on speaking terms?\" he smiled.\n\n\"I'm here to take orders and to wait on customers. I've got nothing to say\nto them, and I don't want them to say anything to me.\"\n\nShe put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had to\npay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting. Philip\nflushed with anger.\n\n\"That's one in the eye for you, Carey,\" said Dunsford, when they got\noutside.\n\n\"Ill-mannered slut,\" said Philip. \"I shan't go there again.\"\n\nHis influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their tea\nelsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt with. But\nthe snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. If she had\ntreated him with civility he would have been perfectly indifferent to her;\nbut it was obvious that she disliked him rather than otherwise, and his\npride was wounded. He could not suppress a desire to be even with her. He\nwas impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but three or\nfour days' firmness, during which he would not go to the shop, did not\nhelp him to surmount it; and he came to the conclusion that it would be\nleast trouble to see her. Having done so he would certainly cease to think\nof her. Pretexting an appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little\nashamed of his weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop\nwhich he had vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the moment he\ncame in and sat down at one of her tables. He expected her to make some\nreference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when she\ncame up for his order she said nothing. He had heard her say to other\ncustomers:\n\n\"You're quite a stranger.\"\n\nShe gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to see\nwhether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he asked:\n\n\"Have you seen my friend tonight?\"\n\n\"No, he's not been in here for some days.\"\n\nHe wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was\nstrangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She gave him no\nopportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance of saying anything\ntill he asked for his bill.\n\n\"Filthy weather, isn't it?\" he said.\n\nIt was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as\nthat. He could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment.\n\n\"It don't make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be in\nhere all day.\"\n\nThere was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. A\nsarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent.\n\n\"I wish to God she'd say something really cheeky,\" he raged to himself,\n\"so that I could report her and get her sacked. It would serve her damned\nwell right.\"\n\n\n\nLVI\n\n\nHe could not get her out of his mind. He laughed angrily at his own\nfoolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little waitress said to\nhim; but he was strangely humiliated. Though no one knew of the\nhumiliation but Dunsford, and he had certainly forgotten, Philip felt that\nhe could have no peace till he had wiped it out. He thought over what he\nhad better do. He made up his mind that he would go to the shop every day;\nit was obvious that he had made a disagreeable impression on her, but he\nthought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care not to say\nanything at which the most susceptible person could be offended. All this\nhe did, but it had no effect. When he went in and said good-evening she\nanswered with the same words, but when once he omitted to say it in order\nto see whether she would say it first, she said nothing at all. He\nmurmured in his heart an expression which though frequently applicable to\nmembers of the female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but\nwith an unmoved face he ordered his tea. He made up his mind not to speak\na word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. He promised\nhimself that he would not go any more, but the next day at tea-time he\ngrew restless. He tried to think of other things, but he had no command\nover his thoughts. At last he said desperately:\n\n\"After all there's no reason why I shouldn't go if I want to.\"\n\nThe struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on for\nseven when he entered the shop.\n\n\"I thought you weren't coming,\" the girl said to him, when he sat down.\n\nHis heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. \"I was\ndetained. I couldn't come before.\"\n\n\"Cutting up people, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Not so bad as that.\"\n\n\"You are a stoodent, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nBut that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and, since at that\nlate hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed herself in a\nnovelette. This was before the time of the sixpenny reprints. There was a\nregular supply of inexpensive fiction written to order by poor hacks for\nthe consumption of the illiterate. Philip was elated; she had addressed\nhim of her own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would\ncome and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. It would be a\ngreat comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. He looked at her.\nIt was true that her profile was beautiful; it was extraordinary how\nEnglish girls of that class had so often a perfection of outline which\ntook your breath away, but it was as cold as marble; and the faint green\nof her delicate skin gave an impression of unhealthiness. All the\nwaitresses were dressed alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron,\ncuffs, and a small cap. On a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket\nPhilip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined\nthe words with her lips as she read), and left it on the table when he\nwent away. It was an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she\nsmiled at him.\n\n\"I didn't know you could draw,\" she said.\n\n\"I was an art-student in Paris for two years.\"\n\n\"I showed that drawing you left be'ind you last night to the manageress\nand she WAS struck with it. Was it meant to be me?\"\n\n\"It was,\" said Philip.\n\nWhen she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him.\n\n\"I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very image of\nher,\" she said.\n\nThat was the first time he had heard her name, and when he wanted his bill\nhe called her by it.\n\n\"I see you know my name,\" she said, when she came.\n\n\"Your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about that\ndrawing.\"\n\n\"She wants you to do one of her. Don't you do it. If you once begin you'll\nhave to go on, and they'll all be wanting you to do them.\" Then without a\npause, with peculiar inconsequence, she said: \"Where's that young fellow\nthat used to come with you? Has he gone away?\"\n\n\"Fancy your remembering him,\" said Philip.\n\n\"He was a nice-looking young fellow.\"\n\nPhilip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. He did not know what\nit was. Dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh complexion, and a\nbeautiful smile. Philip thought of these advantages with envy.\n\n\"Oh, he's in love,\" said he, with a little laugh.\n\nPhilip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he limped\nhome. She was quite friendly with him now. When opportunity arose he would\noffer to make a more finished sketch of her, he was sure she would like\nthat; her face was interesting, the profile was lovely, and there was\nsomething curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour. He tried to\nthink what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup; but, driving away\nthat idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a yellow rosebud when you\ntore it to pieces before it had burst. He had no ill-feeling towards her\nnow.\n\n\"She's not a bad sort,\" he murmured.\n\nIt was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was doubtless\nhis own fault; she had not meant to make herself disagreeable: he ought to\nbe accustomed by now to making at first sight a bad impression on people.\nHe was flattered at the success of his drawing; she looked upon him with\nmore interest now that she was aware of this small talent. He was restless\nnext day. He thought of going to lunch at the tea-shop, but he was certain\nthere would be many people there then, and Mildred would not be able to\ntalk to him. He had managed before this to get out of having tea with\nDunsford, and, punctually at half past four (he had looked at his watch a\ndozen times), he went into the shop.\n\nMildred had her back turned to him. She was sitting down, talking to the\nGerman whom Philip had seen there every day till a fortnight ago and since\nthen had not seen at all. She was laughing at what he said. Philip thought\nshe had a common laugh, and it made him shudder. He called her, but she\ntook no notice; he called her again; then, growing angry, for he was\nimpatient, he rapped the table loudly with his stick. She approached\nsulkily.\n\n\"How d'you do?\" he said.\n\n\"You seem to be in a great hurry.\"\n\nShe looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so well.\n\n\"I say, what's the matter with you?\" he asked.\n\n\"If you'll kindly give your order I'll get what you want. I can't stand\ntalking all night.\"\n\n\"Tea and toasted bun, please,\" Philip answered briefly.\n\nHe was furious with her. He had The Star with him and read it\nelaborately when she brought the tea.\n\n\"If you'll give me my bill now I needn't trouble you again,\" he said\nicily.\n\nShe wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to the\nGerman. Soon she was talking to him with animation. He was a man of middle\nheight, with the round head of his nation and a sallow face; his moustache\nwas large and bristling; he had on a tail-coat and gray trousers, and he\nwore a massive gold watch-chain. Philip thought the other girls looked\nfrom him to the pair at the table and exchanged significant glances. He\nfelt certain they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. He detested\nMildred now with all his heart. He knew that the best thing he could do\nwas to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he could not bear to think that\nhe had been worsted in the affair, and he devised a plan to show her that\nhe despised her. Next day he sat down at another table and ordered his tea\nfrom another waitress. Mildred's friend was there again and she was\ntalking to him. She paid no attention to Philip, and so when he went out\nhe chose a moment when she had to cross his path: as he passed he looked\nat her as though he had never seen her before. He repeated this for three\nor four days. He expected that presently she would take the opportunity to\nsay something to him; he thought she would ask why he never came to one of\nher tables now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the\nloathing he felt for her. He knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could\nnot help himself. She had beaten him again. The German suddenly\ndisappeared, but Philip still sat at other tables. She paid no attention\nto him. Suddenly he realised that what he did was a matter of complete\nindifference to her; he could go on in that way till doomsday, and it\nwould have no effect.\n\n\"I've not finished yet,\" he said to himself.\n\nThe day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up said\ngood-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week. His face was\nplacid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of his heart. At that\ntime the musical comedy had lately leaped into public favour, and he was\nsure that Mildred would be delighted to go to one.\n\n\"I say,\" he said suddenly, \"I wonder if you'd dine with me one night and\ncome to The Belle of New York. I'll get a couple of stalls.\"\n\nHe added the last sentence in order to tempt her. He knew that when the\ngirls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if some man took\nthem, seldom to more expensive seats than the upper circle. Mildred's pale\nface showed no change of expression.\n\n\"I don't mind,\" she said.\n\n\"When will you come?\"\n\n\"I get off early on Thursdays.\"\n\nThey made arrangements. Mildred lived with an aunt at Herne Hill. The play\nbegan at eight so they must dine at seven. She proposed that he should\nmeet her in the second-class waiting-room at Victoria Station. She showed\nno pleasure, but accepted the invitation as though she conferred a favour.\nPhilip was vaguely irritated.\n\n\n\nLVII\n\n\nPhilip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the time\nwhich Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class\nwaiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious,\nand walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the\nhour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her.\nPhilip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at\nthe people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud.\n\n\"There you are. I thought you were never coming.\"\n\n\"I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind to\ngo back home again.\"\n\n\"But you said you'd come to the second-class waiting-room.\"\n\n\"I didn't say any such thing. It isn't exactly likely I'd sit in the\nsecond-class room when I could sit in the first is it?\"\n\nThough Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and\nthey got into a cab.\n\n\"Where are we dining?\" she asked.\n\n\"I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?\"\n\n\"I don't mind where we dine.\"\n\nShe spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and answered\nPhilip's attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore a long cloak\nof some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. They\nreached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round with\nsatisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of the\ndecorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air.\n\n\"I've never been here before.\"\n\nShe gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that she\nwore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was more\nelaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when it came\nher eyes sparkled.\n\n\"You are going it,\" she said.\n\n\"Because I've ordered fiz?\" he asked carelessly, as though he never drank\nanything else.\n\n\"I WAS surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you.\"\nConversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much to\nsay; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. She\nlistened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, and\nmade no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two little\njokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he got\nwas when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the\nmanageress and told him all her misdeeds at length.\n\n\"I can't stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself.\nSometimes I've got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn't\nthink I know anything about.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Well, I happen to know that she's not above going to Eastbourne with a\nman for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married sister\nwho goes there with her husband, and she's seen her. She was staying at\nthe same boarding-house, and she 'ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for one\nshe's not married.\"\n\nPhilip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more\naffable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He\nnoticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when\nshe drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics of\nconversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with\nirritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing\nwith the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a\nvery cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He\nthought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that\nthey did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself\nthoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and\nthen when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she\napplauded rapturously.\n\n\"This is the seventh time I've been,\" she said, after the first act, \"and\nI don't mind if I come seven times more.\"\n\nShe was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls.\nShe pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false\nhair.\n\n\"It is horrible, these West-end people,\" she said. \"I don't know how they\ncan do it.\" She put her hand to her hair. \"Mine's all my own, every bit of\nit.\"\n\nShe found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say\nsomething disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day\nshe would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he\nhad bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he\nwanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:\n\n\"I hope you've enjoyed yourself?\"\n\n\"Rather.\"\n\n\"Will you come out with me again one evening?\"\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\nHe could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference\nmaddened him.\n\n\"That sounds as if you didn't much care if you came or not.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you don't take me out some other fellow will. I need never want\nfor men who'll take me to the theatre.\"\n\nPhilip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the\nbooking-office.\n\n\"I've got my season,\" she said.\n\n\"I thought I'd take you home as it's rather late, if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind if it gives you any pleasure.\"\n\nHe took a single first for her and a return for himself.\n\n\"Well, you're not mean, I will say that for you,\" she said, when he opened\nthe carriage-door.\n\nPhilip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people\nentered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he\naccompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.\n\n\"I'll say good-night to you here,\" she said, holding out her hand. \"You'd\nbetter not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I don't want\nto have anybody talking.\"\n\nShe said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the white shawl\nin the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did not. Philip\nsaw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look at\nit. It was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like all\nthe other little houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes,\nand presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip strolled\nslowly back to the station. The evening had been unsatisfactory. He felt\nirritated, restless, and miserable.\n\nWhen he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of the\nrailway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He did not\nknow how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyes\nrested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face, with its\ndelicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happy\nwith her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her side\nand look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the thought came to\nhim and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake... he wanted to\nkiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The truth came to him at\nlast. He was in love with her. It was incredible.\n\nHe had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which he\nhad pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming into a\nball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; and\none of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and he knew that\nthe gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood quite still. She\nwas tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed\nin white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one\nanother, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went straight up to\nher, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt that the formality of\nintroduction was out of place. He spoke to her.\n\n\"I've been looking for you all my life,\" he said.\n\n\"You've come at last,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Will you dance with me?\"\n\nShe surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (Philip\nalways pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely.\n\n\"I've never danced with anyone who danced like you,\" she said.\n\nShe tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening.\n\n\"I'm so thankful that I waited for you,\" he said to her. \"I knew that in\nthe end I must meet you.\"\n\nPeople in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not wish to\nhide their passion. At last they went into the garden. He flung a light\ncloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. They caught the\nmidnight train to Paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit night\ninto the unknown.\n\nHe thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that he\nshould be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was grotesque. He did not\nthink her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening he had\nnoticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress; he went\nover her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and the\nunhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. She was common. Her\nphrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of her\nmind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the musical\ncomedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended when she\nheld her glass to her mouth; her manners like her conversation, were\nodiously genteel. He remembered her insolence; sometimes he had felt\ninclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it was\nthe thought of hitting her or the recollection of her tiny, beautiful\nears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. He yearned for her. He\nthought of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing her\npale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly greenish\ncheeks. He wanted her.\n\nHe had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the world\nseemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic happiness; but\nthis was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it was a painful\nyearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known before. He tried to\nthink when it had first come to him. He did not know. He only remembered\nthat each time he had gone into the shop, after the first two or three\ntimes, it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain; and\nhe remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously breathless.\nWhen she left him it was wretchedness, and when she came to him again it\nwas despair.\n\nHe stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He wondered\nhow he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul.\n\n\n\nLVIII\n\n\nPhilip woke early next morning, and his first thought was of Mildred. It\nstruck him that he might meet her at Victoria Station and walk with her to\nthe shop. He shaved quickly, scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus to\nthe station. He was there by twenty to eight and watched the incoming\ntrains. Crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that early\nhour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along, sometimes in\npairs, here and there a group of girls, but more often alone. They were\nwhite, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and they had an abstracted\nlook; the younger ones walked lightly, as though the cement of the\nplatform were pleasant to tread, but the others went as though impelled by\na machine: their faces were set in an anxious frown.\n\nAt last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her eagerly.\n\n\"Good-morning,\" he said. \"I thought I'd come and see how you were after\nlast night.\"\n\nShe wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It was very clear that she\nwas not pleased to see him.\n\n\"Oh, I'm all right. I haven't got much time to waste.\"\n\n\"D'you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with you?\"\n\n\"I'm none too early. I shall have to walk fast,\" she answered, looking\ndown at Philip's club-foot.\n\nHe turned scarlet.\n\n\"I beg your pardon. I won't detain you.\"\n\n\"You can please yourself.\"\n\nShe went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to breakfast.\nHe hated her. He knew he was a fool to bother about her; she was not the\nsort of woman who would ever care two straws for him, and she must look\nupon his deformity with distaste. He made up his mind that he would not go\nin to tea that afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. She nodded to him\nas he came in and smiled.\n\n\"I expect I was rather short with you this morning,\" she said. \"You see,\nI didn't expect you, and it came like a surprise.\"\n\n\"Oh, it doesn't matter at all.\"\n\nHe felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. He was\ninfinitely grateful for one word of kindness.\n\n\"Why don't you sit down?\" he asked. \"Nobody's wanting you just now.\"\n\n\"I don't mind if I do.\"\n\nHe looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked his brains\nanxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her by him; he wanted to\ntell her how much she meant to him; but he did not know how to make love\nnow that he loved in earnest.\n\n\"Where's your friend with the fair moustache? I haven't seen him lately.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's gone back to Birmingham. He's in business there. He only comes\nup to London every now and again.\"\n\n\"Is he in love with you?\"\n\n\"You'd better ask him,\" she said, with a laugh. \"I don't know what it's\ngot to do with you if he is.\"\n\nA bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning self-restraint.\n\n\"I wonder why you say things like that,\" was all he permitted himself to\nsay.\n\nShe looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers.\n\n\"It looks as if you didn't set much store on me,\" he added.\n\n\"Why should I?\"\n\n\"No reason at all.\"\n\nHe reached over for his paper.\n\n\"You are quick-tempered,\" she said, when she saw the gesture. \"You do take\noffence easily.\"\n\nHe smiled and looked at her appealingly.\n\n\"Will you do something for me?\" he asked.\n\n\"That depends what it is.\"\n\n\"Let me walk back to the station with you tonight.\"\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\nHe went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight o'clock,\nwhen the shop closed, he was waiting outside.\n\n\"You are a caution,\" she said, when she came out. \"I don't understand\nyou.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't have thought it was very difficult,\" he answered bitterly.\n\n\"Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?\"\n\n\"I don't know and I don't care.\"\n\n\"They all laugh at you, you know. They say you're spoony on me.\"\n\n\"Much you care,\" he muttered.\n\n\"Now then, quarrelsome.\"\n\nAt the station he took a ticket and said he was going to accompany her\nhome.\n\n\"You don't seem to have much to do with your time,\" she said.\n\n\"I suppose I can waste it in my own way.\"\n\nThey seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. The fact was that he\nhated himself for loving her. She seemed to be constantly humiliating him,\nand for each snub that he endured he owed her a grudge. But she was in a\nfriendly mood that evening, and talkative: she told him that her parents\nwere dead; she gave him to understand that she did not have to earn her\nliving, but worked for amusement.\n\n\"My aunt doesn't like my going to business. I can have the best of\neverything at home. I don't want you to think I work because I need to.\"\nPhilip knew that she was not speaking the truth. The gentility of her\nclass made her use this pretence to avoid the stigma attached to earning\nher living.\n\n\"My family's very well-connected,\" she said.\n\nPhilip smiled faintly, and she noticed it.\n\n\"What are you laughing at?\" she said quickly. \"Don't you believe I'm\ntelling you the truth?\"\n\n\"Of course I do,\" he answered.\n\nShe looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment could not resist the\ntemptation to impress him with the splendour of her early days.\n\n\"My father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three servants. We had a\ncook and a housemaid and an odd man. We used to grow beautiful roses.\nPeople used to stop at the gate and ask who the house belonged to, the\nroses were so beautiful. Of course it isn't very nice for me having to mix\nwith them girls in the shop, it's not the class of person I've been used\nto, and sometimes I really think I'll give up business on that account.\nIt's not the work I mind, don't think that; but it's the class of people\nI have to mix with.\"\n\nThey were sitting opposite one another in the train, and Philip, listening\nsympathetically to what she said, was quite happy. He was amused at her\nnaivete and slightly touched. There was a very faint colour in her cheeks.\nHe was thinking that it would be delightful to kiss the tip of her chin.\n\n\"The moment you come into the shop I saw you was a gentleman in every\nsense of the word. Was your father a professional man?\"\n\n\"He was a doctor.\"\n\n\"You can always tell a professional man. There's something about them, I\ndon't know what it is, but I know at once.\"\n\nThey walked along from the station together.\n\n\"I say, I want you to come and see another play with me,\" he said.\n\n\"I don't mind,\" she said.\n\n\"You might go so far as to say you'd like to.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. Let's fix a day. Would Saturday night suit you?\"\n\n\"Yes, that'll do.\"\n\nThey made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the corner of\nthe road in which she lived. She gave him her hand, and he held it.\n\n\"I say, I do so awfully want to call you Mildred.\"\n\n\"You may if you like, I don't care.\"\n\n\"And you'll call me Philip, won't you?\"\n\n\"I will if I can think of it. It seems more natural to call you Mr.\nCarey.\"\n\nHe drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back.\n\n\"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Won't you kiss me good-night?\" he whispered.\n\n\"Impudence!\" she said.\n\nShe snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house.\n\n\nPhilip bought tickets for Saturday night. It was not one of the days on\nwhich she got off early and therefore she would have no time to go home\nand change; but she meant to bring a frock up with her in the morning and\nhurry into her clothes at the shop. If the manageress was in a good temper\nshe would let her go at seven. Philip had agreed to wait outside from a\nquarter past seven onwards. He looked forward to the occasion with painful\neagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the station he\nthought she would let him kiss her. The vehicle gave every facility for a\nman to put his arm round a girl's waist (an advantage which the hansom had\nover the taxi of the present day), and the delight of that was worth the\ncost of the evening's entertainment.\n\nBut on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order to confirm\nthe arrangements, he met the man with the fair moustache coming out of the\nshop. He knew by now that he was called Miller. He was a naturalized\nGerman, who had anglicised his name, and he had lived many years in\nEngland. Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English was fluent\nand natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native. Philip knew\nthat he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but\nhe took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise\ndistressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon his\nrival as no better off than himself. But his heart sank now, for his first\nthought was that Miller's sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt\nwhich he had so looked forward to. He entered, sick with apprehension. The\nwaitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry,\" she said, with an expression on her face of real\ndistress. \"I shan't be able to come tonight after all.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Philip.\n\n\"Don't look so stern about it,\" she laughed. \"It's not my fault. My aunt\nwas taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so I must go and\nsit with her. She can't be left alone, can she?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead.\"\n\n\"But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them.\"\n\nHe took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up.\n\n\"What are you doing that for?\"\n\n\"You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself,\ndo you? I only took seats there for your sake.\"\n\n\"You can't see me home if that's what you mean?\"\n\n\"You've made other arrangements.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as selfish as all the\nrest of them. You only think of yourself. It's not my fault if my aunt's\nqueer.\"\n\nShe quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very little about\nwomen, or he would have been aware that one should accept their most\ntransparent lies. He made up his mind that he would watch the shop and see\nfor certain whether Mildred went out with the German. He had an unhappy\npassion for certainty. At seven he stationed himself on the opposite\npavement. He looked about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutes\nshe came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he\ntook her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was not going\nhome. She saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, and\nthen came straight up to him.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" she said.\n\n\"Taking the air,\" he answered.\n\n\"You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was a\ngentleman.\"\n\n\"Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?\"\nhe murmured.\n\nThere was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. He\nwanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him.\n\n\"I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not obliged to come out\nwith you. I tell you I'm going home, and I won't be followed or spied\nupon.\"\n\n\"Have you seen Miller today?\"\n\n\"That's no business of yours. In point of fact I haven't, so you're wrong\nagain.\"\n\n\"I saw him this afternoon. He'd just come out of the shop when I went in.\"\n\n\"Well, what if he did? I can go out with him if I want to, can't I? I\ndon't know what you've got to say to it.\"\n\n\"He's keeping you waiting, isn't he?\"\n\n\"Well, I'd rather wait for him than have you wait for me. Put that in your\npipe and smoke it. And now p'raps you'll go off home and mind your own\nbusiness in future.\"\n\nHis mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice trembled\nwhen he spoke.\n\n\"I say, don't be beastly with me, Mildred. You know I'm awfully fond of\nyou. I think I love you with all my heart. Won't you change your mind? I\nwas looking forward to this evening so awfully. You see, he hasn't come,\nand he can't care twopence about you really. Won't you dine with me? I'll\nget some more tickets, and we'll go anywhere you like.\"\n\n\"I tell you I won't. It's no good you talking. I've made up my mind, and\nwhen I make up my mind I keep to it.\"\n\nHe looked at her for a moment. His heart was torn with anguish. People\nwere hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and omnibuses rolled by\nnoisily. He saw that Mildred's eyes were wandering. She was afraid of\nmissing Miller in the crowd.\n\n\"I can't go on like this,\" groaned Philip. \"It's too degrading. If I go\nnow I go for good. Unless you'll come with me tonight you'll never see me\nagain.\"\n\n\"You seem to think that'll be an awful thing for me. All I say is, good\nriddance to bad rubbish.\"\n\n\"Then good-bye.\"\n\nHe nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his heart that she\nwould call him back. At the next lamp-post he stopped and looked over his\nshoulder. He thought she might beckon to him--he was willing to forget\neverything, he was ready for any humiliation--but she had turned away, and\napparently had ceased to trouble about him. He realised that she was glad\nto be quit of him.\n\n\n\nLIX\n\n\nPhilip passed the evening wretchedly. He had told his landlady that he\nwould not be in, so there was nothing for him to eat, and he had to go to\nGatti's for dinner. Afterwards he went back to his rooms, but Griffiths on\nthe floor above him was having a party, and the noisy merriment made his\nown misery more hard to bear. He went to a music-hall, but it was Saturday\nnight and there was standing-room only: after half an hour of boredom his\nlegs grew tired and he went home. He tried to read, but he could not fix\nhis attention; and yet it was necessary that he should work hard. His\nexamination in biology was in little more than a fortnight, and, though it\nwas easy, he had neglected his lectures of late and was conscious that he\nknew nothing. It was only a viva, however, and he felt sure that in a\nfortnight he could find out enough about the subject to scrape through. He\nhad confidence in his intelligence. He threw aside his book and gave\nhimself up to thinking deliberately of the matter which was in his mind\nall the time.\n\nHe reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that evening. Why had he\ngiven her the alternative that she must dine with him or else never see\nhim again? Of course she refused. He should have allowed for her pride. He\nhad burnt his ships behind him. It would not be so hard to bear if he\nthought that she was suffering now, but he knew her too well: she was\nperfectly indifferent to him. If he hadn't been a fool he would have\npretended to believe her story; he ought to have had the strength to\nconceal his disappointment and the self-control to master his temper. He\ncould not tell why he loved her. He had read of the idealisation that\ntakes place in love, but he saw her exactly as she was. She was not\namusing or clever, her mind was common; she had a vulgar shrewdness which\nrevolted him, she had no gentleness nor softness. As she would have put it\nherself, she was on the make. What aroused her admiration was a clever\ntrick played on an unsuspecting person; to 'do' somebody always gave her\nsatisfaction. Philip laughed savagely as he thought of her gentility and\nthe refinement with which she ate her food; she could not bear a coarse\nword, so far as her limited vocabulary reached she had a passion for\neuphemisms, and she scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of\ntrousers but referred to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly\nindelicate to blow her nose and did it in a deprecating way. She was\ndreadfully anaemic and suffered from the dyspepsia which accompanies that\nailing. Philip was repelled by her flat breast and narrow hips, and he\nhated the vulgar way in which she did her hair. He loathed and despised\nhimself for loving her.\n\nThe fact remained that he was helpless. He felt just as he had felt\nsometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school. He had struggled against\nthe superior strength till his own strength was gone, and he was rendered\nquite powerless--he remembered the peculiar languor he had felt in his\nlimbs, almost as though he were paralysed--so that he could not help\nhimself at all. He might have been dead. He felt just that same weakness\nnow. He loved the woman so that he knew he had never loved before. He did\nnot mind her faults of person or of character, he thought he loved them\ntoo: at all events they meant nothing to him. It did not seem himself that\nwas concerned; he felt that he had been seized by some strange force that\nmoved him against his will, contrary to his interests; and because he had\na passion for freedom he hated the chains which bound him. He laughed at\nhimself when he thought how often he had longed to experience the\noverwhelming passion. He cursed himself because he had given way to it. He\nthought of the beginnings; nothing of all this would have happened if he\nhad not gone into the shop with Dunsford. The whole thing was his own\nfault. Except for his ridiculous vanity he would never have troubled\nhimself with the ill-mannered slut.\n\nAt all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the whole\naffair. Unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could not go back. He\nwanted passionately to get rid of the love that obsessed him; it was\ndegrading and hateful. He must prevent himself from thinking of her. In a\nlittle while the anguish he suffered must grow less. His mind went back to\nthe past. He wondered whether Emily Wilkinson and Fanny Price had endured\non his account anything like the torment that he suffered now. He felt a\npang of remorse.\n\n\"I didn't know then what it was like,\" he said to himself.\n\nHe slept very badly. The next day was Sunday, and he worked at his\nbiology. He sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with his\nlips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing. He\nfound his thoughts going back to Mildred every minute, and he repeated to\nhimself the exact words of the quarrel they had had. He had to force\nhimself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets on the South\nside of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy,\na coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on Sundays,\nwith no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they\nwere indescribably dreary. Philip thought that day would never end. But he\nwas so tired that he slept heavily, and when Monday came he entered upon\nlife with determination. Christmas was approaching, and a good many of the\nstudents had gone into the country for the short holiday between the two\nparts of the winter session; but Philip had refused his uncle's invitation\nto go down to Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his\nexcuse, but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and\nMildred. He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a\nfortnight to learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to\nwork seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He\ncongratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered was\nno longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be expected\nto feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no bones were\nbroken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that he was able to\nobserve with curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few\nweeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He was a little amused at\nhimself. One thing that struck him was how little under those\ncircumstances it mattered what one thought; the system of personal\nphilosophy, which had given him great satisfaction to devise, had not\nserved him. He was puzzled by this.\n\nBut sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like Mildred\nthat his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help himself, he\nhurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find that it was a\ntotal stranger. Men came back from the country, and he went with Dunsford\nto have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known uniform made him so\nmiserable that he could not speak. The thought came to him that perhaps\nshe had been transferred to another establishment of the firm for which\nshe worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to face with her. The\nidea filled him with panic, so that he feared Dunsford would see that\nsomething was the matter with him: he could not think of anything to say;\nhe pretended to listen to what Dunsford was talking about; the\nconversation maddened him; and it was all he could do to prevent himself\nfrom crying out to Dunsford for Heaven's sake to hold his tongue.\n\nThen came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived, went\nforward to the examiner's table with the utmost confidence. He answered\nthree or four questions. Then they showed him various specimens; he had\nbeen to very few lectures and, as soon as he was asked about things which\nhe could not learn from books, he was floored. He did what he could to\nhide his ignorance, the examiner did not insist, and soon his ten minutes\nwere over. He felt certain he had passed; but next day, when he went up to\nthe examination buildings to see the result posted on the door, he was\nastounded not to find his number among those who had satisfied the\nexaminers. In amazement he read the list three times. Dunsford was with\nhim.\n\n\"I say, I'm awfully sorry you're ploughed,\" he said.\n\nHe had just inquired Philip's number. Philip turned and saw by his radiant\nface that Dunsford had passed.\n\n\"Oh, it doesn't matter a bit,\" said Philip. \"I'm jolly glad you're all\nright. I shall go up again in July.\"\n\nHe was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back\nalong The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things. Dunsford\ngood-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip's failure, but\nPhilip was obstinately casual. He was horribly mortified; and the fact\nthat Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid\nfellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. He had always been\nproud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he\nwas not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself. In the three months of\nthe winter session the students who had joined in October had already\nshaken down into groups, and it was clear which were brilliant, which were\nclever or industrious, and which were 'rotters.' Philip was conscious that\nhis failure was a surprise to no one but himself. It was tea-time, and he\nknew that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the Medical\nSchool: those who had passed the examination would be exultant, those who\ndisliked him would look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who\nhad failed would sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His\ninstinct was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would\nbe no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he\nwent: he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. He forgot for the\nmoment his maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for\nthe policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it,\nthere must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made him\ntake a grim pleasure in self-torture.\n\nBut later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced himself,\ngoing out into the night after the noisy conversation in the smoking-room,\nhe was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. He seemed to himself\nabsurd and futile. He had an urgent need of consolation, and the\ntemptation to see Mildred was irresistible. He thought bitterly that there\nwas small chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if\nhe did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would be\nobliged to serve him. She was the only person in the world he cared for.\nThere was no use in hiding that fact from himself. Of course it would be\nhumiliating to go back to the shop as though nothing had happened, but he\nhad not much self-respect left. Though he would not confess it to himself,\nhe had hoped each day that she would write to him; she knew that a letter\naddressed to the hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was\nevident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And he kept on\nrepeating to himself:\n\n\"I must see her. I must see her.\"\n\nThe desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to walk,\nbut jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to use one when it could possibly\nbe avoided. He stood outside the shop for a minute or two. The thought\ncame to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked in quickly.\nHe saw her at once. He sat down and she came up to him.\n\n\"A cup of tea and a muffin, please,\" he ordered.\n\nHe could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was going to\ncry.\n\n\"I almost thought you was dead,\" she said.\n\nShe was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten completely that\nlast scene which Philip had repeated to himself a hundred times.\n\n\"I thought if you'd wanted to see me you'd write,\" he answered.\n\n\"I've got too much to do to think about writing letters.\"\n\nIt seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip cursed the\nfate which chained him to such a woman. She went away to fetch his tea.\n\n\"Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?\" she said, when she\nbrought it.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where have you been all this time?\"\n\n\"I've been in London.\"\n\n\"I thought you'd gone away for the holidays. Why haven't you been in\nthen?\"\n\nPhilip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.\n\n\"Don't you remember that I said I'd never see you again?\"\n\n\"What are you doing now then?\"\n\nShe seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but he\nknew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him\nfrightfully, and never even tried to. He did not answer.\n\n\"It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. I always\nthought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word.\"\n\n\"Don't be beastly to me, Mildred. I can't bear it.\"\n\n\"You are a funny feller. I can't make you out.\"\n\n\"It's very simple. I'm such a blasted fool as to love you with all my\nheart and soul, and I know that you don't care twopence for me.\"\n\n\"If you had been a gentleman I think you'd have come next day and begged\nmy pardon.\"\n\nShe had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would like to\njab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew enough anatomy to\nmake pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. And at the same time he\nwanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses.\n\n\"If I could only make you understand how frightfully I'm in love with\nyou.\"\n\n\"You haven't begged my pardon yet.\"\n\nHe grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on that\noccasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very proud. For one\ninstant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared not. His\npassion made him abject. He was willing to submit to anything rather than\nnot see her.\n\n\"I'm very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon.\"\n\nHe had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort.\n\n\"Now you've said that I don't mind telling you that I wish I had come out\nwith you that evening. I thought Miller was a gentleman, but I've\ndiscovered my mistake now. I soon sent him about his business.\"\n\nPhilip gave a little gasp.\n\n\"Mildred, won't you come out with me tonight? Let's go and dine\nsomewhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't. My aunt'll be expecting me home.\"\n\n\"I'll send her a wire. You can say you've been detained in the shop; she\nwon't know any better. Oh, do come, for God's sake. I haven't seen you for\nso long, and I want to talk to you.\"\n\nShe looked down at her clothes.\n\n\"Never mind about that. We'll go somewhere where it doesn't matter how\nyou're dressed. And we'll go to a music-hall afterwards. Please say yes.\nIt would give me so much pleasure.\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes.\n\n\"Well, I don't mind if I do. I haven't been out anywhere since I don't\nknow how long.\"\n\nIt was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from seizing\nher hand there and then to cover it with kisses.\n\n\n\nLX\n\n\nThey dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It was not one of the\nmore crowded of those cheap restaurants where the respectable and needy\ndine in the belief that it is bohemian and the assurance that it is\neconomical. It was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from Rouen\nand his wife, that Philip had discovered by accident. He had been\nattracted by the Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an\nuncooked steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw vegetables.\nThere was one seedy French waiter, who was attempting to learn English in\na house where he never heard anything but French; and the customers were\na few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who had their own napkins\nreserved for them, and a few queer men who came in for hurried, scanty\nmeals.\n\nHere Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to themselves. Philip\nsent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from the neighbouring tavern, and\nthey had a potage aux herbes, a steak from the window aux pommes, and\nan omelette au kirsch. There was really an air of romance in the meal\nand in the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her\nappreciation--\"I never quite trust these foreign places, you never know\nwhat there is in these messed up dishes\"--was insensibly moved by it.\n\n\"I like this place, Philip,\" she said. \"You feel you can put your elbows\non the table, don't you?\"\n\nA tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged thin beard.\nHe wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. He nodded to Philip, who\nhad met him there before.\n\n\"He looks like an anarchist,\" said Mildred.\n\n\"He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He's been in every prison on\nthe Continent and has assassinated more persons than any gentleman unhung.\nHe always goes about with a bomb in his pocket, and of course it makes\nconversation a little difficult because if you don't agree with him he\nlays it on the table in a marked manner.\"\n\nShe looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced\nsuspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were laughing. She frowned\na little.\n\n\"You're getting at me.\"\n\nHe gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But Mildred didn't like\nbeing laughed at.\n\n\"I don't see anything funny in telling lies.\"\n\n\"Don't be cross.\"\n\nHe took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it gently.\n\n\"You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you walk on,\" he said.\n\nThe greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin white lips\nhad an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia made her rather short of\nbreath, and she held her mouth slightly open. It seemed to add somehow to\nthe attractiveness of her face.\n\n\"You do like me a bit, don't you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well, if I didn't I suppose I shouldn't be here, should I? You're a\ngentleman in every sense of the word, I will say that for you.\"\n\nThey had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. Philip, throwing\neconomy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar.\n\n\"You can't imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit opposite and\nlook at you. I've yearned for you. I was sick for a sight of you.\"\n\nMildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was not then suffering\nfrom the dyspepsia which generally attacked her immediately after a meal.\nShe felt more kindly disposed to Philip than ever before, and the\nunaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew\ninstinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his only\nchance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed\npassions that seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his\nweakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the agony he\nhad endured during the separation from her; he told her of his struggles\nwith himself, how he had tried to get over his passion, thought he had\nsucceeded, and how he found out that it was as strong as ever. He knew\nthat he had never really wanted to get over it. He loved her so much that\nhe did not mind suffering. He bared his heart to her. He showed her\nproudly all his weakness.\n\nNothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby\nrestaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was\nrestless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere else.\nHe dared not bore her.\n\n\"I say, how about going to a music-hall?\" he said.\n\nHe thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she\npreferred to stay there.\n\n\"I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going,\" she answered.\n\n\"Come on then.\"\n\nPhilip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made up\nhis mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he passed his\narm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he drew it back\nquickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She laughed.\n\n\"There, that comes of putting your arm where it's got no business to be,\"\nshe said. \"I always know when men try and put their arm round my waist.\nThat pin always catches them.\"\n\n\"I'll be more careful.\"\n\nHe put his arm round again. She made no objection.\n\n\"I'm so comfortable,\" he sighed blissfully.\n\n\"So long as you're happy,\" she retorted.\n\nThey drove down St. James' Street into the Park, and Philip quickly kissed\nher. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his courage. She\nturned her lips to him without speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to\nlike it.\n\n\"If you only knew how long I've wanted to do that,\" he murmured.\n\nHe tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.\n\n\"Once is enough,\" she said.\n\nOn the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne Hill\nwith her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked her:\n\n\"Won't you give me another kiss?\"\n\nShe looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see that\nno one was in sight.\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\nHe seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him\naway.\n\n\"Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy,\" she said.\n\n\n\nLXI\n\n\nHe saw her then every day. He began going to lunch at the shop, but\nMildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to content\nhimself with tea; but he always waited about to walk with her to the\nstation; and once or twice a week they dined together. He gave her little\npresents, a gold bangle, gloves, handkerchiefs, and the like. He was\nspending more than he could afford, but he could not help it: it was only\nwhen he gave her anything that she showed any affection. She knew the\nprice of everything, and her gratitude was in exact proportion with the\nvalue of his gift. He did not care. He was too happy when she volunteered\nto kiss him to mind by what means he got her demonstrativeness. He\ndiscovered that she found Sundays at home tedious, so he went down to\nHerne Hill in the morning, met her at the end of the road, and went to\nchurch with her.\n\n\"I always like to go to church once,\" she said. \"It looks well, doesn't\nit?\"\n\nThen she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel, and in the\nafternoon they took a walk in Brockwell Park. They had nothing much to say\nto one another, and Philip, desperately afraid she was bored (she was very\neasily bored), racked his brain for topics of conversation. He realised\nthat these walks amused neither of them, but he could not bear to leave\nher, and did all he could to lengthen them till she became tired and out\nof temper. He knew that she did not care for him, and he tried to force a\nlove which his reason told him was not in her nature: she was cold. He had\nno claim on her, but he could not help being exacting. Now that they were\nmore intimate he found it less easy to control his temper; he was often\nirritable and could not help saying bitter things. Often they quarrelled,\nand she would not speak to him for a while; but this always reduced him to\nsubjection, and he crawled before her. He was angry with himself for\nshowing so little dignity. He grew furiously jealous if he saw her\nspeaking to any other man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed\nto be beside himself. He would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and\nspend afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and\nremorseful. Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for forgiveness.\n\n\"Don't be angry with me,\" he said. \"I'm so awfully fond of you that I\ncan't help myself.\"\n\n\"One of these days you'll go too far,\" she answered.\n\nHe was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy\nshould give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made during\nher working-hours; but she would not let him.\n\n\"My aunt would think it so funny,\" she said.\n\nHe suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let him\nsee her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the widow of a professional\nman (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily conscious that\nthe good woman could hardly be called distinguished. Philip imagined that\nshe was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman. He knew that\nMildred was a snob. But he found no means by which he could indicate to\nher that he did not mind how common the aunt was.\n\nTheir worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him\nthat a man had asked her to go to a play with him. Philip turned pale, and\nhis face grew hard and stern.\n\n\"You're not going?\" he said.\n\n\"Why shouldn't I? He's a very nice gentlemanly fellow.\"\n\n\"I'll take you anywhere you like.\"\n\n\"But that isn't the same thing. I can't always go about with you. Besides\nhe's asked me to fix my own day, and I'll just go one evening when I'm not\ngoing out with you. It won't make any difference to you.\"\n\n\"If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you wouldn't\ndream of going.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by gratitude. If you're referring to the\nthings you've given me you can have them back. I don't want them.\"\n\nHer voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.\n\n\"It's not very lively, always going about with you. It's always do you\nlove me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it.\"\n\nHe knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help\nhimself.\n\n\"Oh, I like you all right,\" she would answer.\n\n\"Is that all? I love you with all my heart.\"\n\n\"I'm not that sort, I'm not one to say much.\"\n\n\"If you knew how happy just one word would make me!\"\n\n\"Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if\nthey don't like it they can lump it.\"\n\nBut sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked\nthe question, answered:\n\n\"Oh, don't go on at that again.\"\n\nThen he became sulky and silent. He hated her.\n\nAnd now he said:\n\n\"Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to come\nout with me at all.\"\n\n\"It's not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me to.\"\n\nHis pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.\n\n\"You think I'm just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when\nthere's no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go to\nhell. Thank you, I'm about sick of being made a convenience.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I'll just show you how\nmuch I want your dirty dinner.\"\n\nShe got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the restaurant.\nPhilip sat on. He determined he would not move, but ten minutes afterwards\nhe jumped in a cab and followed her. He guessed that she would take a 'bus\nto Victoria, so that they would arrive about the same time. He saw her on\nthe platform, escaped her notice, and went down to Herne Hill in the same\ntrain. He did not want to speak to her till she was on the way home and\ncould not escape him.\n\nAs soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit and noisy\nwith traffic, he caught her up.\n\n\"Mildred,\" he called.\n\nShe walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. He repeated her\nname. Then she stopped and faced him.\n\n\"What d'you want? I saw you hanging about Victoria. Why don't you leave me\nalone?\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry. Won't you make it up?\"\n\n\"No, I'm sick of your temper and your jealousy. I don't care for you, I\nnever have cared for you, and I never shall care for you. I don't want to\nhave anything more to do with you.\"\n\nShe walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her.\n\n\"You never make allowances for me,\" he said. \"It's all very well to be\njolly and amiable when you're indifferent to anyone. It's very hard when\nyou're as much in love as I am. Have mercy on me. I don't mind that you\ndon't care for me. After all you can't help it. I only want you to let me\nlove you.\"\n\nShe walked on, refusing to speak, and Philip saw with agony that they had\nonly a few hundred yards to go before they reached her house. He abased\nhimself. He poured out an incoherent story of love and penitence.\n\n\"If you'll only forgive me this time I promise you you'll never have to\ncomplain of me in future. You can go out with whoever you choose. I'll be\nonly too glad if you'll come with me when you've got nothing better to\ndo.\"\n\nShe stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he always left\nher.\n\n\"Now you can take yourself off. I won't have you coming up to the door.\"\n\n\"I won't go till you say you'll forgive me.\"\n\n\"I'm sick and tired of the whole thing.\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment, for he had an instinct that he could say something\nthat would move her. It made him feel almost sick to utter the words.\n\n\"It is cruel, I have so much to put up with. You don't know what it is to\nbe a cripple. Of course you don't like me. I can't expect you to.\"\n\n\"Philip, I didn't mean that,\" she answered quickly, with a sudden break of\npity in her voice. \"You know it's not true.\"\n\nHe was beginning to act now, and his voice was husky and low.\n\n\"Oh, I've felt it,\" he said.\n\nShe took his hand and looked at him, and her own eyes were filled with\ntears.\n\n\"I promise you it never made any difference to me. I never thought about\nit after the first day or two.\"\n\nHe kept a gloomy, tragic silence. He wanted her to think he was overcome\nwith emotion.\n\n\"You know I like you awfully, Philip. Only you are so trying sometimes.\nLet's make it up.\"\n\nShe put up her lips to his, and with a sigh of relief he kissed her.\n\n\"Now are you happy again?\" she asked.\n\n\"Madly.\"\n\nShe bade him good-night and hurried down the road. Next day he took her in\na little watch with a brooch to pin on her dress. She had been hankering\nfor it.\n\nBut three or four days later, when she brought him his tea, Mildred said\nto him:\n\n\"You remember what you promised the other night? You mean to keep that,\ndon't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe knew exactly what she meant and was prepared for her next words.\n\n\"Because I'm going out with that gentleman I told you about tonight.\"\n\n\"All right. I hope you'll enjoy yourself.\"\n\n\"You don't mind, do you?\"\n\nHe had himself now under excellent control.\n\n\"I don't like it,\" he smiled, \"but I'm not going to make myself more\ndisagreeable than I can help.\"\n\nShe was excited over the outing and talked about it willingly. Philip\nwondered whether she did so in order to pain him or merely because she was\ncallous. He was in the habit of condoning her cruelty by the thought of\nher stupidity. She had not the brains to see when she was wounding him.\n\n\"It's not much fun to be in love with a girl who has no imagination and no\nsense of humour,\" he thought, as he listened.\n\nBut the want of these things excused her. He felt that if he had not\nrealised this he could never forgive her for the pain she caused him.\n\n\"He's got seats for the Tivoli,\" she said. \"He gave me my choice and I\nchose that. And we're going to dine at the Cafe Royal. He says it's the\nmost expensive place in London.\"\n\n\"He's a gentleman in every sense of the word,\" thought Philip, but he\nclenched his teeth to prevent himself from uttering a syllable.\n\nPhilip went to the Tivoli and saw Mildred with her companion, a\nsmooth-faced young man with sleek hair and the spruce look of a commercial\ntraveller, sitting in the second row of the stalls. Mildred wore a black\npicture hat with ostrich feathers in it, which became her well. She was\nlistening to her host with that quiet smile which Philip knew; she had no\nvivacity of expression, and it required broad farce to excite her\nlaughter; but Philip could see that she was interested and amused. He\nthought to himself bitterly that her companion, flashy and jovial, exactly\nsuited her. Her sluggish temperament made her appreciate noisy people.\nPhilip had a passion for discussion, but no talent for small-talk. He\nadmired the easy drollery of which some of his friends were masters,\nLawson for instance, and his sense of inferiority made him shy and\nawkward. The things which interested him bored Mildred. She expected men\nto talk about football and racing, and he knew nothing of either. He did\nnot know the catchwords which only need be said to excite a laugh.\n\nPrinted matter had always been a fetish to Philip, and now, in order to\nmake himself more interesting, he read industriously The Sporting Times.\n\n\n\nLXII\n\n\nPhilip did not surrender himself willingly to the passion that consumed\nhim. He knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it\nmust cease one day or another. He looked forward to that day with eager\nlonging. Love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful\nexistence on his life's blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that\nhe could take pleasure in nothing else. He had been used to delight in the\ngrace of St. James' Park, and often he sat and looked at the branches of\na tree silhouetted against the sky, it was like a Japanese print; and he\nfound a continual magic in the beautiful Thames with its barges and its\nwharfs; the changing sky of London had filled his soul with pleasant\nfancies. But now beauty meant nothing to him. He was bored and restless\nwhen he was not with Mildred. Sometimes he thought he would console his\nsorrow by looking at pictures, but he walked through the National Gallery\nlike a sight-seer; and no picture called up in him a thrill of emotion. He\nwondered if he could ever care again for all the things he had loved. He\nhad been devoted to reading, but now books were meaningless; and he spent\nhis spare hours in the smoking-room of the hospital club, turning over\ninnumerable periodicals. This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly\nthe subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed for\nfreedom.\n\nSometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul leaped, for\nhe thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in a little while, as he\ngrew wide awake, the pain settled in his heart, and he knew that he was\nnot cured yet. Though he yearned for Mildred so madly he despised her. He\nthought to himself that there could be no greater torture in the world\nthan at the same time to love and to contemn.\n\nPhilip, burrowing as was his habit into the state of his feelings,\ndiscussing with himself continually his condition, came to the conclusion\nthat he could only cure himself of his degrading passion by making Mildred\nhis mistress. It was sexual hunger that he suffered from, and if he could\nsatisfy this he might free himself from the intolerable chains that bound\nhim. He knew that Mildred did not care for him at all in that way. When he\nkissed her passionately she withdrew herself from him with instinctive\ndistaste. She had no sensuality. Sometimes he had tried to make her\njealous by talking of adventures in Paris, but they did not interest her;\nonce or twice he had sat at other tables in the tea-shop and affected to\nflirt with the waitress who attended them, but she was entirely\nindifferent. He could see that it was no pretence on her part.\n\n\"You didn't mind my not sitting at one of your tables this afternoon?\" he\nasked once, when he was walking to the station with her. \"Yours seemed to\nbe all full.\"\n\nThis was not a fact, but she did not contradict him. Even if his desertion\nmeant nothing to her he would have been grateful if she had pretended it\ndid. A reproach would have been balm to his soul.\n\n\"I think it's silly of you to sit at the same table every day. You ought\nto give the other girls a turn now and again.\"\n\nBut the more he thought of it the more he was convinced that complete\nsurrender on her part was his only way to freedom. He was like a knight of\nold, metamorphosed by magic spells, who sought the potions which should\nrestore him to his fair and proper form. Philip had only one hope. Mildred\ngreatly desired to go to Paris. To her, as to most English people, it was\nthe centre of gaiety and fashion: she had heard of the Magasin du Louvre,\nwhere you could get the very latest thing for about half the price you had\nto pay in London; a friend of hers had passed her honeymoon in Paris and\nhad spent all day at the Louvre; and she and her husband, my dear, they\nnever went to bed till six in the morning all the time they were there;\nthe Moulin Rouge and I don't know what all. Philip did not care that if\nshe yielded to his desires it would only be the unwilling price she paid\nfor the gratification of her wish. He did not care upon what terms he\nsatisfied his passion. He had even had a mad, melodramatic idea to drug\nher. He had plied her with liquor in the hope of exciting her, but she had\nno taste for wine; and though she liked him to order champagne because it\nlooked well, she never drank more than half a glass. She liked to leave\nuntouched a large glass filled to the brim.\n\n\"It shows the waiters who you are,\" she said.\n\nPhilip chose an opportunity when she seemed more than usually friendly. He\nhad an examination in anatomy at the end of March. Easter, which came a\nweek later, would give Mildred three whole days holiday.\n\n\"I say, why don't you come over to Paris then?\" he suggested. \"We'd have\nsuch a ripping time.\"\n\n\"How could you? It would cost no end of money.\"\n\nPhilip had thought of that. It would cost at least five-and-twenty pounds.\nIt was a large sum to him. He was willing to spend his last penny on her.\n\n\"What does that matter? Say you'll come, darling.\"\n\n\"What next, I should like to know. I can't see myself going away with a\nman that I wasn't married to. You oughtn't to suggest such a thing.\"\n\n\"What does it matter?\"\n\nHe enlarged on the glories of the Rue de la Paix and the garish splendour\nof the Folies Bergeres. He described the Louvre and the Bon Marche. He\ntold her about the Cabaret du Neant, the Abbaye, and the various haunts to\nwhich foreigners go. He painted in glowing colours the side of Paris which\nhe despised. He pressed her to come with him.\n\n\"You know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you'd want to\nmarry me. You've never asked me to marry you.\"\n\n\"You know I can't afford it. After all, I'm in my first year, I shan't\nearn a penny for six years.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not blaming you. I wouldn't marry you if you went down on your\nbended knees to me.\"\n\nHe had thought of marriage more than once, but it was a step from which he\nshrank. In Paris he had come by the opinion that marriage was a ridiculous\ninstitution of the philistines. He knew also that a permanent tie would\nruin him. He had middle-class instincts, and it seemed a dreadful thing to\nhim to marry a waitress. A common wife would prevent him from getting a\ndecent practice. Besides, he had only just enough money to last him till\nhe was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if they arranged not to\nhave children. He thought of Cronshaw bound to a vulgar slattern, and he\nshuddered with dismay. He foresaw what Mildred, with her genteel ideas\nand her mean mind, would become: it was impossible for him to marry her.\nBut he decided only with his reason; he felt that he must have her\nwhatever happened; and if he could not get her without marrying her he\nwould do that; the future could look after itself. It might end in\ndisaster; he did not care. When he got hold of an idea it obsessed him, he\ncould think of nothing else, and he had a more than common power to\npersuade himself of the reasonableness of what he wished to do. He found\nhimself overthrowing all the sensible arguments which had occurred to him\nagainst marriage. Each day he found that he was more passionately devoted\nto her; and his unsatisfied love became angry and resentful.\n\n\"By George, if I marry her I'll make her pay for all the suffering I've\nendured,\" he said to himself.\n\nAt last he could bear the agony no longer. After dinner one evening in the\nlittle restaurant in Soho, to which now they often went, he spoke to her.\n\n\"I say, did you mean it the other day that you wouldn't marry me if I\nasked you?\"\n\n\"Yes, why not?\"\n\n\"Because I can't live without you. I want you with me always. I've tried\nto get over it and I can't. I never shall now. I want you to marry me.\"\n\nShe had read too many novelettes not to know how to take such an offer.\n\n\"I'm sure I'm very grateful to you, Philip. I'm very much flattered at\nyour proposal.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't talk rot. You will marry me, won't you?\"\n\n\"D'you think we should be happy?\"\n\n\"No. But what does that matter?\"\n\nThe words were wrung out of him almost against his will. They surprised\nher.\n\n\"Well, you are a funny chap. Why d'you want to marry me then? The other\nday you said you couldn't afford it.\"\n\n\"I think I've got about fourteen hundred pounds left. Two can live just as\ncheaply as one. That'll keep us till I'm qualified and have got through\nwith my hospital appointments, and then I can get an assistantship.\"\n\n\"It means you wouldn't be able to earn anything for six years. We should\nhave about four pounds a week to live on till then, shouldn't we?\"\n\n\"Not much more than three. There are all my fees to pay.\"\n\n\"And what would you get as an assistant?\"\n\n\"Three pounds a week.\"\n\n\"D'you mean to say you have to work all that time and spend a small\nfortune just to earn three pounds a week at the end of it? I don't see\nthat I should be any better off than I am now.\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment.\n\n\"D'you mean to say you won't marry me?\" he asked hoarsely. \"Does my great\nlove mean nothing to you at all?\"\n\n\"One has to think of oneself in those things, don't one? I shouldn't mind\nmarrying, but I don't want to marry if I'm going to be no better off than\nwhat I am now. I don't see the use of it.\"\n\n\"If you cared for me you wouldn't think of all that.\"\n\n\"P'raps not.\"\n\nHe was silent. He drank a glass of wine in order to get rid of the choking\nin his throat.\n\n\"Look at that girl who's just going out,\" said Mildred. \"She got them furs\nat the Bon Marche at Brixton. I saw them in the window last time I went\ndown there.\"\n\nPhilip smiled grimly.\n\n\"What are you laughing at?\" she asked. \"It's true. And I said to my aunt\nat the time, I wouldn't buy anything that had been in the window like\nthat, for everyone to know how much you paid for it.\"\n\n\"I can't understand you. You make me frightfully unhappy, and in the next\nbreath you talk rot that has nothing to do with what we're speaking\nabout.\"\n\n\"You are nasty to me,\" she answered, aggrieved. \"I can't help noticing\nthose furs, because I said to my aunt...\"\n\n\"I don't care a damn what you said to your aunt,\" he interrupted\nimpatiently.\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't use bad language when you speak to me Philip. You\nknow I don't like it.\"\n\nPhilip smiled a little, but his eyes were wild. He was silent for a while.\nHe looked at her sullenly. He hated, despised, and loved her.\n\n\"If I had an ounce of sense I'd never see you again,\" he said at last. \"If\nyou only knew how heartily I despise myself for loving you!\"\n\n\"That's not a very nice thing to say to me,\" she replied sulkily.\n\n\"It isn't,\" he laughed. \"Let's go to the Pavilion.\"\n\n\"That's what's so funny in you, you start laughing just when one doesn't\nexpect you to. And if I make you that unhappy why d'you want to take me to\nthe Pavilion? I'm quite ready to go home.\"\n\n\"Merely because I'm less unhappy with you than away from you.\"\n\n\"I should like to know what you really think of me.\"\n\nHe laughed outright.\n\n\"My dear, if you did you'd never speak to me again.\"\n\n\n\nLXIII\n\n\nPhilip did not pass the examination in anatomy at the end of March. He and\nDunsford had worked at the subject together on Philip's skeleton, asking\neach other questions till both knew by heart every attachment and the\nmeaning of every nodule and groove on the human bones; but in the\nexamination room Philip was seized with panic, and failed to give right\nanswers to questions from a sudden fear that they might be wrong. He knew\nhe was ploughed and did not even trouble to go up to the building next day\nto see whether his number was up. The second failure put him definitely\namong the incompetent and idle men of his year.\n\nHe did not care much. He had other things to think of. He told himself\nthat Mildred must have senses like anybody else, it was only a question of\nawakening them; he had theories about woman, the rip at heart, and thought\nthat there must come a time with everyone when she would yield to\npersistence. It was a question of watching for the opportunity, keeping\nhis temper, wearing her down with small attentions, taking advantage of\nthe physical exhaustion which opened the heart to tenderness, making\nhimself a refuge from the petty vexations of her work. He talked to her of\nthe relations between his friends in Paris and the fair ladies they\nadmired. The life he described had a charm, an easy gaiety, in which was\nno grossness. Weaving into his own recollections the adventures of Mimi\nand Rodolphe, of Musette and the rest of them, he poured into Mildred's\nears a story of poverty made picturesque by song and laughter, of lawless\nlove made romantic by beauty and youth. He never attacked her prejudices\ndirectly, but sought to combat them by the suggestion that they were\nsuburban. He never let himself be disturbed by her inattention, nor\nirritated by her indifference. He thought he had bored her. By an effort\nhe made himself affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry,\nhe never asked for anything, he never complained, he never scolded. When\nshe made engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling\nface; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. He never let\nher see that she pained him. He understood that his passionate grief had\nwearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in\nthe least degree troublesome. He was heroic.\n\nThough she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any conscious\nnotice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became more confidential\nwith him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some\ngrievance against the manageress of the shop, one of her fellow\nwaitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and though she\nnever said anything that was not trivial Philip was never tired of\nlistening to her.\n\n\"I like you when you don't want to make love to me,\" she told him once.\n\n\"That's flattering for me,\" he laughed.\n\nShe did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an effort\nit needed for him to answer so lightly.\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind your kissing me now and then. It doesn't hurt me and it\ngives you pleasure.\"\n\nOccasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to dinner, and\nthe offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture.\n\n\"I wouldn't do it to anyone else,\" she said, by way of apology. \"But I\nknow I can with you.\"\n\n\"You couldn't give me greater pleasure,\" he smiled.\n\nShe asked him to give her something to eat one evening towards the end of\nApril.\n\n\"All right,\" he said. \"Where would you like to go afterwards?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't let's go anywhere. Let's just sit and talk. You don't mind, do\nyou?\"\n\n\"Rather not.\"\n\nHe thought she must be beginning to care for him. Three months before the\nthought of an evening spent in conversation would have bored her to death.\nIt was a fine day, and the spring added to Philip's high spirits. He was\ncontent with very little now.\n\n\"I say, won't it be ripping when the summer comes along,\" he said, as they\ndrove along on the top of a 'bus to Soho--she had herself suggested that\nthey should not be so extravagant as to go by cab. \"We shall be able to\nspend every Sunday on the river. We'll take our luncheon in a basket.\"\n\nShe smiled slightly, and he was encouraged to take her hand. She did not\nwithdraw it.\n\n\"I really think you're beginning to like me a bit,\" he smiled.\n\n\"You ARE silly, you know I like you, or else I shouldn't be here,\nshould I?\"\n\nThey were old customers at the little restaurant in Soho by now, and the\npatronne gave them a smile as they came in. The waiter was obsequious.\n\n\"Let me order the dinner tonight,\" said Mildred.\n\nPhilip, thinking her more enchanting than ever, gave her the menu, and she\nchose her favourite dishes. The range was small, and they had eaten many\ntimes all that the restaurant could provide. Philip was gay. He looked\ninto her eyes, and he dwelt on every perfection of her pale cheek. When\nthey had finished Mildred by way of exception took a cigarette. She smoked\nvery seldom.\n\n\"I don't like to see a lady smoking,\" she said.\n\nShe hesitated a moment and then spoke.\n\n\"Were you surprised, my asking you to take me out and give me a bit of\ndinner tonight?\"\n\n\"I was delighted.\"\n\n\"I've got something to say to you, Philip.\"\n\nHe looked at her quickly, his heart sank, but he had trained himself well.\n\n\"Well, fire away,\" he said, smiling.\n\n\"You're not going to be silly about it, are you? The fact is I'm going to\nget married.\"\n\n\"Are you?\" said Philip.\n\nHe could think of nothing else to say. He had considered the possibility\noften and had imagined to himself what he would do and say. He had\nsuffered agonies when he thought of the despair he would suffer, he had\nthought of suicide, of the mad passion of anger that would seize him; but\nperhaps he had too completely anticipated the emotion he would experience,\nso that now he felt merely exhausted. He felt as one does in a serious\nillness when the vitality is so low that one is indifferent to the issue\nand wants only to be left alone.\n\n\"You see, I'm getting on,\" she said. \"I'm twenty-four and it's time I\nsettled down.\"\n\nHe was silent. He looked at the patronne sitting behind the counter, and\nhis eye dwelt on a red feather one of the diners wore in her hat. Mildred\nwas nettled.\n\n\"You might congratulate me,\" she said.\n\n\"I might, mightn't I? I can hardly believe it's true. I've dreamt it so\noften. It rather tickles me that I should have been so jolly glad that you\nasked me to take you out to dinner. Whom are you going to marry?\"\n\n\"Miller,\" she answered, with a slight blush.\n\n\"Miller?\" cried Philip, astounded. \"But you've not seen him for months.\"\n\n\"He came in to lunch one day last week and asked me then. He's earning\nvery good money. He makes seven pounds a week now and he's got prospects.\"\n\nPhilip was silent again. He remembered that she had always liked Miller;\nhe amused her; there was in his foreign birth an exotic charm which she\nfelt unconsciously.\n\n\"I suppose it was inevitable,\" he said at last. \"You were bound to accept\nthe highest bidder. When are you going to marry?\"\n\n\"On Saturday next. I have given notice.\"\n\nPhilip felt a sudden pang.\n\n\"As soon as that?\"\n\n\"We're going to be married at a registry office. Emil prefers it.\"\n\nPhilip felt dreadfully tired. He wanted to get away from her. He thought\nhe would go straight to bed. He called for the bill.\n\n\"I'll put you in a cab and send you down to Victoria. I daresay you won't\nhave to wait long for a train.\"\n\n\"Won't you come with me?\"\n\n\"I think I'd rather not if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"It's just as you please,\" she answered haughtily. \"I suppose I shall see\nyou at tea-time tomorrow?\"\n\n\"No, I think we'd better make a full stop now. I don't see why I should go\non making myself unhappy. I've paid the cab.\"\n\nHe nodded to her and forced a smile on his lips, then jumped on a 'bus and\nmade his way home. He smoked a pipe before he went to bed, but he could\nhardly keep his eyes open. He suffered no pain. He fell into a heavy sleep\nalmost as soon as his head touched the pillow.\n\n\n\nLXIV\n\n\nBut about three in the morning Philip awoke and could not sleep again. He\nbegan to think of Mildred. He tried not to, but could not help himself. He\nrepeated to himself the same thing time after time till his brain reeled.\nIt was inevitable that she should marry: life was hard for a girl who had\nto earn her own living; and if she found someone who could give her a\ncomfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted. Philip\nacknowledged that from her point of view it would have been madness to\nmarry him: only love could have made such poverty bearable, and she did\nnot love him. It was no fault of hers; it was a fact that must be accepted\nlike any other. Philip tried to reason with himself. He told himself that\ndeep down in his heart was mortified pride; his passion had begun in\nwounded vanity, and it was this at bottom which caused now a great part of\nhis wretchedness. He despised himself as much as he despised her. Then he\nmade plans for the future, the same plans over and over again, interrupted\nby recollections of kisses on her soft pale cheek and by the sound of her\nvoice with its trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since\nin the summer he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations he\nhad failed in. He had separated himself from his friends at the hospital,\nbut now he wanted companionship. There was one happy occurrence: Hayward\na fortnight before had written to say that he was passing through London\nand had asked him to dinner; but Philip, unwilling to be bothered, had\nrefused. He was coming back for the season, and Philip made up his mind to\nwrite to him.\n\nHe was thankful when eight o'clock struck and he could get up. He was pale\nand weary. But when he had bathed, dressed, and had breakfast, he felt\nhimself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was a little\neasier to bear. He did not feel like going to lectures that morning, but\nwent instead to the Army and Navy Stores to buy Mildred a wedding-present.\nAfter much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. It cost twenty pounds,\nwhich was much more than he could afford, but it was showy and vulgar: he\nknew she would be aware exactly how much it cost; he got a melancholy\nsatisfaction in choosing a gift which would give her pleasure and at the\nsame time indicate for himself the contempt he had for her.\n\nPhilip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which Mildred\nwas to be married; he was expecting an intolerable anguish; and it was\nwith relief that he got a letter from Hayward on Saturday morning to say\nthat he was coming up early on that very day and would fetch Philip to\nhelp him to find rooms. Philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up a\ntime-table and discovered the only train Hayward was likely to come by; he\nwent to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was enthusiastic. They\nleft the luggage at the station, and set off gaily. Hayward\ncharacteristically proposed that first of all they should go for an hour\nto the National Gallery; he had not seen pictures for some time, and he\nstated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune with life. Philip for\nmonths had had no one with whom he could talk of art and books. Since the\nParis days Hayward had immersed himself in the modern French versifiers,\nand, such a plethora of poets is there in France, he had several new\ngeniuses to tell Philip about. They walked through the gallery pointing\nout to one another their favourite pictures; one subject led to another;\nthey talked excitedly. The sun was shining and the air was warm.\n\n\"Let's go and sit in the Park,\" said Hayward. \"We'll look for rooms after\nluncheon.\"\n\nThe spring was pleasant there. It was a day upon which one felt it good\nmerely to live. The young green of the trees was exquisite against the\nsky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds. At\nthe end of the ornamental water was the gray mass of the Horse Guards. The\nordered elegance of the scene had the charm of an eighteenth-century\npicture. It reminded you not of Watteau, whose landscapes are so idyllic\nthat they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams, but of the more\nprosaic Jean-Baptiste Pater. Philip's heart was filled with lightness. He\nrealised, what he had only read before, that art (for there was art in the\nmanner in which he looked upon nature) might liberate the soul from pain.\n\nThey went to an Italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered themselves a\nfiaschetto of Chianti. Lingering over the meal they talked on. They\nreminded one another of the people they had known at Heidelberg, they\nspoke of Philip's friends in Paris, they talked of books, pictures,\nmorals, life; and suddenly Philip heard a clock strike three. He\nremembered that by this time Mildred was married. He felt a sort of stitch\nin his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what Hayward was\nsaying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was unaccustomed to\nalcohol and it had gone to his head. For the time at all events he was\nfree from care. His quick brain had lain idle for so many months that he\nwas intoxicated now with conversation. He was thankful to have someone to\ntalk to who would interest himself in the things that interested him.\n\n\"I say don't let's waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. I'll put\nyou up tonight. You can look for rooms tomorrow or Monday.\"\n\n\"All right. What shall we do?\" answered Hayward.\n\n\"Let's get on a penny steamboat and go down to Greenwich.\"\n\nThe idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took them\nto Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just as she was starting.\nPresently Philip, a smile on his lips, spoke.\n\n\"I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was, gave a\nlong discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by painters\nand poets. They create beauty. In themselves there is nothing to choose\nbetween the Campanile of Giotto and a factory chimney. And then beautiful\nthings grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused in succeeding\ngenerations. That is why old things are more beautiful than modern. The\nOde on a Grecian Urn is more lovely now than when it was written,\nbecause for a hundred years lovers have read it and the sick at heart\ntaken comfort in its lines.\"\n\nPhilip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene had suggested these\nwords to him, and it was a delight to know that he could safely leave the\ninference. It was in sudden reaction from the life he had been leading for\nso long that he was now deeply affected. The delicate iridescence of the\nLondon air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of the\nbuildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there was the severity of\ngrace of a Japanese print. They went further down; and the splendid\nchannel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was crowded with\ntraffic; Philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made all\nthese things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with gratitude. They\ncame to the Pool of London, and who can describe its majesty? The\nimagination thrills, and Heaven knows what figures people still its broad\nstream, Doctor Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old Pepys going on\nboard a man-o'-war: the pageant of English history, and romance, and high\nadventure. Philip turned to Hayward with shining eyes.\n\n\"Dear Charles Dickens,\" he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion.\n\n\"Aren't you rather sorry you chucked painting?\" asked Hayward.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I suppose you like doctoring?\"\n\n\"No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery of the\nfirst two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven't got the scientific\ntemperament.\"\n\n\"Well, you can't go on changing professions.\"\n\n\"Oh, no. I'm going to stick to this. I think I shall like it better when\nI get into the wards. I have an idea that I'm more interested in people\nthan in anything else in the world. And as far as I can see, it's the only\nprofession in which you have your freedom. You carry your knowledge in\nyour head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you can make your\nliving anywhere.\"\n\n\"Aren't you going to take a practice then?\"\n\n\"Not for a good long time at any rate,\" Philip answered. \"As soon as I've\ngot through my hospital appointments I shall get a ship; I want to go to\nthe East--the Malay Archipelago, Siam, China, and all that sort of\nthing--and then I shall take odd jobs. Something always comes along,\ncholera duty in India and things like that. I want to go from place to\nplace. I want to see the world. The only way a poor man can do that is by\ngoing in for the medical.\"\n\nThey came to Greenwich then. The noble building of Inigo Jones faced the\nriver grandly.\n\n\"I say, look, that must be the place where Poor Jack dived into the mud\nfor pennies,\" said Philip.\n\nThey wandered in the park. Ragged children were playing in it, and it was\nnoisy with their cries: here and there old seamen were basking in the sun.\nThere was an air of a hundred years ago.\n\n\"It seems a pity you wasted two years in Paris,\" said Hayward.\n\n\"Waste? Look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern which the\nsun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look at that sky--why,\nI should never have seen that sky if I hadn't been to Paris.\"\n\nHayward thought that Philip choked a sob, and he looked at him with\nastonishment.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I'm sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six months I've\nbeen starved for beauty.\"\n\n\"You used to be so matter of fact. It's very interesting to hear you say\nthat.\"\n\n\"Damn it all, I don't want to be interesting,\" laughed Philip. \"Let's go\nand have a stodgy tea.\"\n\n\n\nLXV\n\n\nHayward's visit did Philip a great deal of good. Each day his thoughts\ndwelt less on Mildred. He looked back upon the past with disgust. He could\nnot understand how he had submitted to the dishonour of such a love; and\nwhen he thought of Mildred it was with angry hatred, because she had\nsubmitted him to so much humiliation. His imagination presented her to him\nnow with her defects of person and manner exaggerated, so that he\nshuddered at the thought of having been connected with her.\n\n\"It just shows how damned weak I am,\" he said to himself. The adventure\nwas like a blunder that one had committed at a party so horrible that one\nfelt nothing could be done to excuse it: the only remedy was to forget.\nHis horror at the degradation he had suffered helped him. He was like a\nsnake casting its skin and he looked upon the old covering with nausea. He\nexulted in the possession of himself once more; he realised how much of\nthe delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that madness\nwhich they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be in\nlove any more if love was that. Philip told Hayward something of what he\nhad gone through.\n\n\"Wasn't it Sophocles,\" he asked, \"who prayed for the time when he would be\ndelivered from the wild beast of passion that devoured his heart-strings?\"\n\nPhilip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the circumambient air\nas though he had never breathed it before, and he took a child's pleasure\nin all the facts of the world. He called his period of insanity six\nmonths' hard labour.\n\nHayward had only been settled in London a few days when Philip received\nfrom Blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a private view at\nsome picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue,\nsaw that Lawson had a picture in it.\n\n\"I suppose he sent the card,\" said Philip. \"Let's go and find him, he's\nsure to be in front of his picture.\"\n\nThis, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and Lawson\nwas not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his large soft hat and\nloose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered for\nthe private view. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual\nvolubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice was\na hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commission\nfor a portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old talk.\nPhilip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained\nto see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward's elegant clothes and\ngrand manner. They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby\nlittle studio which Lawson and Philip had shared.\n\nAt dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to America.\nClutton had disappeared. He had come to the conclusion that a man had no\nchance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art and\nartists: the only thing was to get right away. To make the step easier he\nhad quarrelled with all his friends in Paris. He developed a talent for\ntelling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his\ndeclaration that he had done with that city and was settling in Gerona, a\nlittle town in the north of Spain which had attracted him when he saw it\nfrom the train on his way to Barcelona. He was living there now alone.\n\n\"I wonder if he'll ever do any good,\" said Philip.\n\nHe was interested in the human side of that struggle to express something\nwhich was so obscure in the man's mind that he was become morbid and\nquerulous. Philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the same case, but\nwith him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that perplexed him.\nThat was his means of self-expression, and what he must do with it was not\nclear. But he had no time to continue with this train of thought, for\nLawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with Ruth Chalice. She had\nleft him for a young student who had just come from England, and was\nbehaving in a scandalous fashion. Lawson really thought someone ought to\nstep in and save the young man. She would ruin him. Philip gathered that\nLawson's chief grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of a\nportrait he was painting.\n\n\"Women have no real feeling for art,\" he said. \"They only pretend they\nhave.\" But he finished philosophically enough: \"However, I got four\nportraits out of her, and I'm not sure if the last I was working on would\never have been a success.\"\n\nPhilip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love affairs.\nHe had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had got an excellent\nmodel for nothing, and had parted from her at the end with no great pang.\n\n\"And what about Cronshaw?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, he's done for,\" answered Lawson, with the cheerful callousness of his\nyouth. \"He'll be dead in six months. He got pneumonia last winter. He was\nin the English hospital for seven weeks, and when he came out they told\nhim his only chance was to give up liquor.\"\n\n\"Poor devil,\" smiled the abstemious Philip.\n\n\"He kept off for a bit. He used to go to the Lilas all the same, he\ncouldn't keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk, avec de la\nfleur d'oranger, and he was damned dull.\"\n\n\"I take it you did not conceal the fact from him.\"\n\n\"Oh, he knew it himself. A little while ago he started on whiskey again.\nHe said he was too old to turn over any new leaves. He would rather be\nhappy for six months and die at the end of it than linger on for five\nyears. And then I think he's been awfully hard up lately. You see, he\ndidn't earn anything while he was ill, and the slut he lives with has been\ngiving him a rotten time.\"\n\n\"I remember, the first time I saw him I admired him awfully,\" said Philip.\n\"I thought he was wonderful. It is sickening that vulgar, middle-class\nvirtue should pay.\"\n\n\"Of course he was a rotter. He was bound to end in the gutter sooner or\nlater,\" said Lawson.\n\nPhilip was hurt because Lawson would not see the pity of it. Of course it\nwas cause and effect, but in the necessity with which one follows the\nother lay all tragedy of life.\n\n\"Oh, I'd forgotten,\" said Lawson. \"Just after you left he sent round a\npresent for you. I thought you'd be coming back and I didn't bother about\nit, and then I didn't think it worth sending on; but it'll come over to\nLondon with the rest of my things, and you can come to my studio one day\nand fetch it away if you want it.\"\n\n\"You haven't told me what it is yet.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's only a ragged little bit of carpet. I shouldn't think it's worth\nanything. I asked him one day what the devil he'd sent the filthy thing\nfor. He told me he'd seen it in a shop in the Rue de Rennes and bought it\nfor fifteen francs. It appears to be a Persian rug. He said you'd asked\nhim the meaning of life and that was the answer. But he was very drunk.\"\n\nPhilip laughed.\n\n\"Oh yes, I know. I'll take it. It was a favourite wheeze of his. He said\nI must find out for myself, or else the answer meant nothing.\"\n\n\n\nLXVI\n\n\nPhilip worked well and easily; he had a good deal to do, since he was\ntaking in July the three parts of the First Conjoint examination, two of\nwhich he had failed in before; but he found life pleasant. He made a new\nfriend. Lawson, on the lookout for models, had discovered a girl who was\nunderstudying at one of the theatres, and in order to induce her to sit to\nhim arranged a little luncheon-party one Sunday. She brought a chaperon\nwith her; and to her Philip, asked to make a fourth, was instructed to\nconfine his attentions. He found this easy, since she turned out to be an\nagreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. She asked Philip to go and\nsee her; she had rooms in Vincent Square, and was always in to tea at five\no'clock; he went, was delighted with his welcome, and went again. Mrs.\nNesbit was not more than twenty-five, very small, with a pleasant, ugly\nface; she had very bright eyes, high cheekbones, and a large mouth: the\nexcessive contrasts of her colouring reminded one of a portrait by one of\nthe modern French painters; her skin was very white, her cheeks were very\nred, her thick eyebrows, her hair, were very black. The effect was odd, a\nlittle unnatural, but far from unpleasing. She was separated from her\nhusband and earned her living and her child's by writing penny novelettes.\nThere were one or two publishers who made a specialty of that sort of\nthing, and she had as much work as she could do. It was ill-paid, she\nreceived fifteen pounds for a story of thirty thousand words; but she was\nsatisfied.\n\n\"After all, it only costs the reader twopence,\" she said, \"and they like\nthe same thing over and over again. I just change the names and that's\nall. When I'm bored I think of the washing and the rent and clothes for\nbaby, and I go on again.\"\n\nBesides, she walked on at various theatres where they wanted supers and\nearned by this when in work from sixteen shillings to a guinea a week. At\nthe end of her day she was so tired that she slept like a top. She made\nthe best of her difficult lot. Her keen sense of humour enabled her to get\namusement out of every vexatious circumstance. Sometimes things went\nwrong, and she found herself with no money at all; then her trifling\npossessions found their way to a pawnshop in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and\nshe ate bread and butter till things grew brighter. She never lost her\ncheerfulness.\n\nPhilip was interested in her shiftless life, and she made him laugh with\nthe fantastic narration of her struggles. He asked her why she did not try\nher hand at literary work of a better sort, but she knew that she had no\ntalent, and the abominable stuff she turned out by the thousand words was\nnot only tolerably paid, but was the best she could do. She had nothing to\nlook forward to but a continuation of the life she led. She seemed to have\nno relations, and her friends were as poor as herself.\n\n\"I don't think of the future,\" she said. \"As long as I have enough money\nfor three weeks' rent and a pound or two over for food I never bother.\nLife wouldn't be worth living if I worried over the future as well as the\npresent. When things are at their worst I find something always happens.\"\n\nSoon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every day, and\nso that his visits might not embarrass her he took in a cake or a pound of\nbutter or some tea. They started to call one another by their Christian\nnames. Feminine sympathy was new to him, and he delighted in someone who\ngave a willing ear to all his troubles. The hours went quickly. He did not\nhide his admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not\nhelp comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the one's\nobstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did not\nknow, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence. His heart\nsank when he thought that he might have been tied for life to such a woman\nas Mildred. One evening he told Norah the whole story of his love. It was\nnot one to give him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant\nto receive such charming sympathy.\n\n\"I think you're well out of it,\" she said, when he had finished.\n\nShe had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an\nAberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she had\nno time to do nothing, and Philip had made himself comfortable at her\nfeet.\n\n\"I can't tell you how heartily thankful I am it's all over,\" he sighed.\n\n\"Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time,\" she murmured, and by way of\nshowing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder.\n\nHe took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly.\n\n\"Why did you do that?\" she asked, with a blush.\n\n\"Have you any objection?\"\n\nShe looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled.\n\n\"No,\" she said.\n\nHe got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes steadily,\nand her large mouth trembled with a smile.\n\n\"Well?\" she said.\n\n\"You know, you are a ripper. I'm so grateful to you for being nice to me.\nI like you so much.\"\n\n\"Don't be idiotic,\" she said.\n\nPhilip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She made no\nresistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips.\n\n\"Why did you do that?\" she asked again.\n\n\"Because it's comfortable.\"\n\nShe did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she passed\nher hand softly over his hair.\n\n\"You know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like this. We were such\ngood friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at that.\"\n\n\"If you really want to appeal to my better nature,\" replied Philip,\n\"you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're doing it.\"\n\nShe gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop.\n\n\"It's very wrong of me, isn't it?\" she said.\n\nPhilip, surprised and a little amused, looked into her eyes, and as he\nlooked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and there was an expression in\nthem that enchanted him. His heart was suddenly stirred, and tears came to\nhis eyes.\n\n\"Norah, you're not fond of me, are you?\" he asked, incredulously.\n\n\"You clever boy, you ask such stupid questions.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could be.\"\n\nHe flung his arms round her and kissed her, while she, laughing, blushing,\nand crying, surrendered herself willingly to his embrace.\n\nPresently he released her and sitting back on his heels looked at her\ncuriously.\n\n\"Well, I'm blowed!\" he said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I'm so surprised.\"\n\n\"And pleased?\"\n\n\"Delighted,\" he cried with all his heart, \"and so proud and so happy and\nso grateful.\"\n\nHe took her hands and covered them with kisses. This was the beginning for\nPhilip of a happiness which seemed both solid and durable. They became\nlovers but remained friends. There was in Norah a maternal instinct which\nreceived satisfaction in her love for Philip; she wanted someone to pet,\nand scold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found\npleasure in looking after his health and his linen. She pitied his\ndeformity, over which he was so sensitive, and her pity expressed itself\ninstinctively in tenderness. She was young, strong, and healthy, and it\nseemed quite natural to her to give her love. She had high spirits and a\nmerry soul. She liked Philip because he laughed with her at all the\namusing things in life that caught her fancy, and above all she liked him\nbecause he was he.\n\nWhen she told him this he answered gaily:\n\n\"Nonsense. You like me because I'm a silent person and never want to get\na word in.\"\n\nPhilip did not love her at all. He was extremely fond of her, glad to be\nwith her, amused and interested by her conversation. She restored his\nbelief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the\nbruises of his soul. He was immensely flattered that she cared for him. He\nadmired her courage, her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had\na little philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical.\n\n\"You know, I don't believe in churches and parsons and all that,\" she\nsaid, \"but I believe in God, and I don't believe He minds much about what\nyou do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile\nwhen you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry\nfor those who aren't.\"\n\n\"And what about afterwards?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, well, I don't know for certain, you know,\" she smiled, \"but I hope\nfor the best. And anyhow there'll be no rent to pay and no novelettes to\nwrite.\"\n\nShe had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She thought that Philip did\na brave thing when he left Paris because he was conscious he could not be\na great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed enthusiastic\nadmiration for him. He had never been quite certain whether this action\nindicated courage or infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realise\nthat she considered it heroic. She ventured to tackle him on a subject\nwhich his friends instinctively avoided.\n\n\"It's very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot,\" she\nsaid. She saw him blush darkly, but went on. \"You know, people don't think\nabout it nearly as much as you do. They notice it the first time they see\nyou, and then they forget about it.\"\n\nHe would not answer.\n\n\"You're not angry with me, are you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nShe put her arm round his neck.\n\n\"You know, I only speak about it because I love you. I don't want it to\nmake you unhappy.\"\n\n\"I think you can say anything you choose to me,\" he answered, smiling. \"I\nwish I could do something to show you how grateful I am to you.\"\n\nShe took him in hand in other ways. She would not let him be bearish and\nlaughed at him when he was out of temper. She made him more urbane.\n\n\"You can make me do anything you like,\" he said to her once.\n\n\"D'you mind?\"\n\n\"No, I want to do what you like.\"\n\nHe had the sense to realise his happiness. It seemed to him that she gave\nhim all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most\ncharming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found\nin a man. The sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in\ntheir friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because\nPhilip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to\nlive with. He felt in complete possession of himself. He thought sometimes\nof the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and\nhe was filled with loathing for Mildred and with horror of himself.\n\nHis examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them as\nhe. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness. She made him promise to\ncome at once and tell her the results. He passed the three parts this time\nwithout mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears.\n\n\"Oh, I'm so glad, I was so anxious.\"\n\n\"You silly little thing,\" he laughed, but he was choking.\n\nNo one could help being pleased with the way she took it.\n\n\"And what are you going to do now?\" she asked.\n\n\"I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to do till\nthe winter session begins in October.\"\n\n\"I suppose you'll go down to your uncle's at Blackstable?\"\n\n\"You suppose quite wrong. I'm going to stay in London and play with you.\"\n\n\"I'd rather you went away.\"\n\n\"Why? Are you tired of me?\"\n\nShe laughed and put her hands on his shoulders.\n\n\"Because you've been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. You\nwant some fresh air and a rest. Please go.\"\n\nHe did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving eyes.\n\n\"You know, I'd never believe it of anyone but you. You're only thinking of\nmy good. I wonder what you see in me.\"\n\n\"Will you give me a good character with my month's notice?\" she laughed\ngaily.\n\n\"I'll say that you're thoughtful and kind, and you're not exacting; you\nnever worry, you're not troublesome, and you're easy to please.\"\n\n\"All that's nonsense,\" she said, \"but I'll tell you one thing: I'm one of\nthe few persons I ever met who are able to learn from experience.\"\n\n\n\nLXVII\n\n\nPhilip looked forward to his return to London with impatience. During the\ntwo months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently, long\nletters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described\nthe little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her\nlandlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her\nrehearsals--she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the\nLondon theatres--and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes.\nPhilip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the\nbeginning of October he settled down in London to work for the Second\nConjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that ended the\ndrudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an\nout-patients' clerk, and was brought in contact with men and women as well\nas with text-books. Philip saw Norah every day.\n\nLawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number of sketches\nto show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a couple of commissions\nfor portraits and proposed to stay in London till the bad light drove him\naway. Hayward, in London too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but\nremained week after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go.\nHayward had run to fat during the last two or three years--it was five\nyears since Philip first met him in Heidelberg--and he was prematurely\nbald. He was very sensitive about it and wore his hair long to conceal the\nunsightly patch on the crown of his head. His only consolation was that\nhis brow was now very noble. His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had\na listless droop; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and\npale. He still talked vaguely of the things he was going to do in the\nfuture, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no\nlonger believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey\nhe was inclined to be elegiac.\n\n\"I'm a failure,\" he murmured, \"I'm unfit for the brutality of the struggle\nof life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar throng hustle\nby in their pursuit of the good things.\"\n\nHe gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more\nexquisite thing, than to succeed. He insinuated that his aloofness was due\nto distaste for all that was common and low. He talked beautifully of\nPlato.\n\n\"I should have thought you'd got through with Plato by now,\" said Philip\nimpatiently.\n\n\"Would you?\" he asked, raising his eyebrows.\n\nHe was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of late the\neffective dignity of silence.\n\n\"I don't see the use of reading the same thing over and over again,\" said\nPhilip. \"That's only a laborious form of idleness.\"\n\n\"But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that you\ncan understand the most profound writer at a first reading?\"\n\n\"I don't want to understand him, I'm not a critic. I'm not interested in\nhim for his sake but for mine.\"\n\n\"Why d'you read then?\"\n\n\"Partly for pleasure, because it's a habit and I'm just as uncomfortable\nif I don't read as if I don't smoke, and partly to know myself. When I\nread a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come\nacross a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for ME,\nand it becomes part of me; I've got out of the book all that's any use to\nme, and I can't get anything more if I read it a dozen times. You see, it\nseems to me, one's like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does\nhas no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar\nsignificance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by\none; and at last the flower is there.\"\n\nPhilip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know how else\nto explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about.\n\n\"You want to do things, you want to become things,\" said Hayward, with a\nshrug of the shoulders. \"It's so vulgar.\"\n\nPhilip knew Hayward very well by now. He was weak and vain, so vain that\nyou had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled\nidleness and idealism so that he could not separate them. At Lawson's\nstudio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his conversation,\nand a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do\nsome criticism for him. For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of\nindecision. He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that\nhe had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doing anything\nfilled him with panic. At last he declined the offer and breathed freely.\n\n\"It would have interfered with my work,\" he told Philip.\n\n\"What work?\" asked Philip brutally.\n\n\"My inner life,\" he answered.\n\nThen he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the professor of\nGeneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never fulfilled;\ntill at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once\nmanifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found among his\npapers. Hayward smiled enigmatically.\n\nBut Hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste was\nexquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant interest\nin ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. They meant nothing to\nhim really, since they never had any effect on him; but he treated them as\nhe might have pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with\npleasure in their shape and their glaze, pricing them in his mind; and\nthen, putting them back into their case, thought of them no more.\n\nAnd it was Hayward who made a momentous discovery. One evening, after due\npreparation, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern situated in Beak\nStreet, remarkable not only in itself and for its history--it had memories\nof eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic imagination--but\nfor its snuff, which was the best in London, and above all for its punch.\nHayward led them into a large, long room, dingily magnificent, with huge\npictures on the walls of nude women: they were vast allegories of the\nschool of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London atmosphere had given them\na richness which made them look like old masters. The dark panelling, the\nmassive, tarnished gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room\nan air of sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall\nwere soft and easy. There was a ram's head on a table opposite the door,\nand this contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered punch. They drank\nit. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the\nexcellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this\nnarrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic\nphrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the\nhead; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to\nutter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of\nmusic and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was\ncomparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its\ntaste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. Charles\nLamb, with his infinite tact, attempting to, might have drawn charming\npictures of the life of his day; Lord Byron in a stanza of Don Juan,\naiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde,\nheaping jewels of Ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have created\na troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the\nfeasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the\nmusty, fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes,\nruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of\nlilies of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese.\n\nHayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to be\nobtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had been at\nCambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He was\naccustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and\nHayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change\nof manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to\npersons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a big-boned\nfellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft\nvoice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything from the standpoint\nof pure reason. He was fond of expounding his doctrines. Philip listened\nwith excited interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing\namused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy\nin the affairs of life. The neat little system which he had formed as the\nresult of his meditations at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use\nduring his infatuation for Mildred. He could not be positive that reason\nwas much help in the conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived\nitself. He remembered very vividly the violence of the emotion which had\npossessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground\nwith ropes, to react against it. He read many wise things in books, but he\ncould only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was\ndifferent from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an\naction, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which\nmight result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on\nirresistibly. He did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The\npower that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all\nthat reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his whole\nsoul was striving for.\n\nMacalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.\n\n\"Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a\nuniversal rule of action for all men.\"\n\n\"That seems to me perfect nonsense,\" said Philip.\n\n\"You're a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,\"\nretorted Macalister.\n\n\"Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality: there's\na damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought things not\nbecause they were true, but because he was Kant.\"\n\n\"Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?\" (They talked\nas though the fate of empires were in the balance.)\n\n\"It suggests that one can choose one's course by an effort of will. And it\nsuggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates be any\nbetter than those of passion? They're different. That's all.\"\n\n\"You seem to be a contented slave of your passions.\"\n\n\"A slave because I can't help myself, but not a contented one,\" laughed\nPhilip.\n\nWhile he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in\npursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed against it and how he\nhad felt the degradation of it.\n\n\"Thank God, I'm free from all that now,\" he thought.\n\nAnd yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke\nsincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a\nsingular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was more\nalive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul,\nwhich made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had endured there\nwas a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence.\n\nBut Philip's unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of\nthe will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out\nargument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and\nhe forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from\nwhich he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with\nlogic and battered him with authorities.\n\nAt last Philip said:\n\n\"Well, I can't say anything about other people. I can only speak for\nmyself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can't get\naway from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an illusion\nwhich is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything\nI feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards,\nwhen the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all\neternity.\"\n\n\"What do you deduce from that?\" asked Hayward.\n\n\"Why, merely the futility of regret. It's no good crying over spilt milk,\nbecause all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.\"\n\n\n\nLXVIII\n\n\nOne morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to bed\nsuddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached and he shivered with\ncold. When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her through\nthe open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece\nof toast. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door, and Griffiths\ncame in. They had lived in the same house for over a year, but had never\ndone more than nod to one another in the passage.\n\n\"I say, I hear you're seedy,\" said Griffiths. \"I thought I'd come in and\nsee what was the matter with you.\"\n\nPhilip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He would\nbe all right in an hour or two.\n\n\"Well, you'd better let me take your temperature,\" said Griffiths.\n\n\"It's quite unnecessary,\" answered Philip irritably.\n\n\"Come on.\"\n\nPhilip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of the\nbed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at\nit.\n\n\"Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I'll bring old Deacon\nin to have a look at you.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Philip. \"There's nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn't\nbother about me.\"\n\n\"But it isn't any bother. You've got a temperature and you must stay in\nbed. You will, won't you?\"\n\nThere was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and\nkindliness, which was infinitely attractive.\n\n\"You've got a wonderful bed-side manner,\" Philip murmured, closing his\neyes with a smile.\n\nGriffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the\nbedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip's sitting-room to look\nfor a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He\ndrew down the blind.\n\n\"Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round as soon as he's done\nthe wards.\"\n\nIt seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would\nsplit, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then\nthere was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and\ncheerful, came in.\n\n\"Here's Doctor Deacon,\" he said.\n\nThe physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom\nPhilip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the\ndiagnosis.\n\n\"What d'you make it?\" he asked Griffiths, smiling.\n\n\"Influenza.\"\n\n\"Quite right.\"\n\nDoctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.\n\n\"Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll put you in a private\nward, and you can be better looked after than you can here.\"\n\n\"I'd rather stay where I am,\" said Philip.\n\nHe did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new\nsurroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary\ncleanliness of the hospital.\n\n\"I can look after him, sir,\" said Griffiths at once.\n\n\"Oh, very well.\"\n\nHe wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.\n\n\"Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you,\" said Griffiths. \"I'm\nday-nurse and night-nurse all in one.\"\n\n\"It's very kind of you, but I shan't want anything,\" said Philip.\n\nGriffiths put his hand on Philip's forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and\nthe touch seemed to him good.\n\n\"I'm just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up,\nand then I'll come back.\"\n\nIn a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose. Then he\nwent upstairs to fetch his books.\n\n\"You won't mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?\" he\nsaid, when he came down. \"I'll leave the door open so that you can give me\na shout if you want anything.\"\n\nLater in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his\nsitting-room. A friend had come in to see Griffiths.\n\n\"I say, you'd better not come in tonight,\" he heard Griffiths saying.\n\nAnd then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and\nexpressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there. Philip heard him\nexplain.\n\n\"I'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms. The wretched\nblighter's down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man.\"\n\nPresently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.\n\n\"I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not on your account. I must work at my surgery.\"\n\n\"Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't bother about me.\"\n\n\"That's all right.\"\n\nPhilip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but\ntowards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out\nof an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece\nafter piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row.\"\n\n\"Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?\"\n\n\"About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you tonight. I brought an\narm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so\nsoundly that I shouldn't hear you if you wanted anything.\"\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't be so good to me,\" groaned Philip. \"Suppose you catch\nit?\"\n\n\"Then you shall nurse me, old man,\" said Griffiths, with a laugh.\n\nIn the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after\nhis night's watch, but was full of spirits.\n\n\"Now, I'm going to wash you,\" he said to Philip cheerfully.\n\n\"I can wash myself,\" said Philip, ashamed.\n\n\"Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can\ndo it just as well as a nurse.\"\n\nPhilip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his\nhands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming\ntenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he\nchanged the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow,\nand arranged the bed-clothes.\n\n\"I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon's\ncoming in to see you early.\"\n\n\"I can't imagine why you should be so good to me,\" said Philip.\n\n\"It's good practice for me. It's rather a lark having a patient.\"\n\nGriffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have\nsomething to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of\ngrapes and a few flowers.\n\n\"You are awfully kind,\" said Philip.\n\nHe was in bed for five days.\n\nNorah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the same\nage as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. He was\na thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was\na vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in\ncontact. Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from\nmothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of\nthis strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting idly in\nPhilip's room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. He was a\nflirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a\ntime; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out\nof difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a\nromantic glamour over everything that happened to him. He was crippled\nwith debts, everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed\nalways to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by\nnature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and\nhis acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was\nenormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles,\ndifficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting\nhis impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was\nploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully,\nand submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations\nthat his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be\nseriously angry with him.\n\n\"I'm an awful fool at books,\" he said cheerfully, \"but I CAN'T work.\"\n\nLife was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through the\nexuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a\ntremendous success in practice. He would cure people by the sheer charm of\nhis manner.\n\nPhilip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall\nand straight and high of spirits. By the time he was well they were fast\nfriends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that Griffiths\nseemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting Philip's time with\nhis amusing chatter and smoking innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him\nsometimes to the tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but\nLawson recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a\npicturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often\nthey discussed things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with\na good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his\npresence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the company.\nWhen he discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for\ntips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he\ncould have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. It made\nPhilip's mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than\nhe had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little\nmoney by the easy method Macalister suggested.\n\n\"Next time I hear of a really good thing I'll let you know,\" said the\nstockbroker. \"They do come along sometimes. It's only a matter of biding\none's time.\"\n\nPhilip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to make fifty\npounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so badly needed for the\nwinter. He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked out the\narticles he could buy for the money. She deserved everything. She made\nhis life very happy.\n\n\n\nLXIX\n\n\nOne afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from the hospital to wash\nand tidy himself before going to tea as usual with Norah, as he let\nhimself in with his latch-key, his landlady opened the door for him.\n\n\"There's a lady waiting to see you,\" she said.\n\n\"Me?\" exclaimed Philip.\n\nHe was surprised. It would only be Norah, and he had no idea what had\nbrought her.\n\n\"I shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she's been three times, and she seemed\nthat upset at not finding you, so I told her she could wait.\"\n\nHe pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into the room. His heart\nturned sick. It was Mildred. She was sitting down, but got up hurriedly as\nhe came in. She did not move towards him nor speak. He was so surprised\nthat he did not know what he was saying.\n\n\"What the hell d'you want?\" he asked.\n\nShe did not answer, but began to cry. She did not put her hands to her\neyes, but kept them hanging by the side of her body. She looked like a\nhousemaid applying for a situation. There was a dreadful humility in her\nbearing. Philip did not know what feelings came over him. He had a sudden\nimpulse to turn round and escape from the room.\n\n\"I didn't think I'd ever see you again,\" he said at last.\n\n\"I wish I was dead,\" she moaned.\n\nPhilip left her standing where she was. He could only think at the moment\nof steadying himself. His knees were shaking. He looked at her, and he\ngroaned in despair.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he said.\n\n\"He's left me--Emil.\"\n\nPhilip's heart bounded. He knew then that he loved her as passionately as\never. He had never ceased to love her. She was standing before him humble\nand unresisting. He wished to take her in his arms and cover her\ntear-stained face with kisses. Oh, how long the separation had been! He\ndid not know how he could have endured it.\n\n\"You'd better sit down. Let me give you a drink.\"\n\nHe drew the chair near the fire and she sat in it. He mixed her whiskey\nand soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. She looked at him with great,\nmournful eyes. There were large black lines under them. She was thinner\nand whiter than when last he had seen her.\n\n\"I wish I'd married you when you asked me,\" she said.\n\nPhilip did not know why the remark seemed to swell his heart. He could not\nkeep the distance from her which he had forced upon himself. He put his\nhand on her shoulder.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry you're in trouble.\"\n\nShe leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical crying.\nHer hat was in the way and she took it off. He had never dreamt that she\nwas capable of crying like that. He kissed her again and again. It seemed\nto ease her a little.\n\n\"You were always good to me, Philip,\" she said. \"That's why I knew I could\ncome to you.\"\n\n\"Tell me what's happened.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't, I can't,\" she cried out, breaking away from him.\n\nHe sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against hers.\n\n\"Don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me? I can never blame\nyou for anything.\"\n\nShe told him the story little by little, and sometimes she sobbed so much\nthat he could hardly understand.\n\n\"Last Monday week he went up to Birmingham, and he promised to be back on\nThursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on the Friday, so I wrote\nto ask what was the matter, and he never answered the letter. And I wrote\nand said that if I didn't hear from him by return I'd go up to Birmingham,\nand this morning I got a solicitor's letter to say I had no claim on him,\nand if I molested him he'd seek the protection of the law.\"\n\n\"But it's absurd,\" cried Philip. \"A man can't treat his wife like that.\nHad you had a row?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the Sunday, and he said he was sick of me,\nbut he'd said it before, and he'd come back all right. I didn't think he\nmeant it. He was frightened, because I told him a baby was coming. I kept\nit from him as long as I could. Then I had to tell him. He said it was my\nfault, and I ought to have known better. If you'd only heard the things he\nsaid to me! But I found out precious quick that he wasn't a gentleman. He\nleft me without a penny. He hadn't paid the rent, and I hadn't got the\nmoney to pay it, and the woman who kept the house said such things to\nme--well, I might have been a thief the way she talked.\"\n\n\"I thought you were going to take a flat.\"\n\n\"That's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in Highbury.\nHe was that mean. He said I was extravagant, he didn't give me anything to\nbe extravagant with.\"\n\nShe had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the important.\nPhilip was puzzled. The whole thing was incomprehensible.\n\n\"No man could be such a blackguard.\"\n\n\"You don't know him. I wouldn't go back to him now not if he was to come\nand ask me on his bended knees. I was a fool ever to think of him. And he\nwasn't earning the money he said he was. The lies he told me!\"\n\nPhilip thought for a minute or two. He was so deeply moved by her distress\nthat he could not think of himself.\n\n\"Would you like me to go to Birmingham? I could see him and try to make\nthings up.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's no chance of that. He'll never come back now, I know him.\"\n\n\"But he must provide for you. He can't get out of that. I don't know\nanything about these things, you'd better go and see a solicitor.\"\n\n\"How can I? I haven't got the money.\"\n\n\"I'll pay all that. I'll write a note to my own solicitor, the sportsman\nwho was my father's executor. Would you like me to come with you now? I\nexpect he'll still be at his office.\"\n\n\"No, give me a letter to him. I'll go alone.\"\n\nShe was a little calmer now. He sat down and wrote a note. Then he\nremembered that she had no money. He had fortunately changed a cheque the\nday before and was able to give her five pounds.\n\n\"You are good to me, Philip,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm so happy to be able to do something for you.\"\n\n\"Are you fond of me still?\"\n\n\"Just as fond as ever.\"\n\nShe put up her lips and he kissed her. There was a surrender in the action\nwhich he had never seen in her before. It was worth all the agony he had\nsuffered.\n\nShe went away and he found that she had been there for two hours. He was\nextraordinarily happy.\n\n\"Poor thing, poor thing,\" he murmured to himself, his heart glowing with\na greater love than he had ever felt before.\n\nHe never thought of Norah at all till about eight o'clock a telegram came.\nHe knew before opening it that it was from her.\n\n\nIs anything the matter? Norah.\n\n\nHe did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch her after\nthe play, in which she was walking on, was over and stroll home with her\nas he sometimes did; but his whole soul revolted against the idea of\nseeing her that evening. He thought of writing to her, but he could not\nbring himself to address her as usual, dearest Norah. He made up his\nmind to telegraph.\n\n\nSorry. Could not get away, Philip.\n\n\nHe visualised her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little face, with\nits high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was a coarseness in her\nskin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew that his telegram must be\nfollowed by some action on his part, but at all events it postponed it.\n\nNext day he wired again.\n\n\nRegret, unable to come. Will write.\n\n\nMildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he would not\ntell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she came first. He\nwaited for her impatiently. He watched for her at the window and opened\nthe front-door himself.\n\n\"Well? Did you see Nixon?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered. \"He said it wasn't any good. Nothing's to be done. I\nmust just grin and bear it.\"\n\n\"But that's impossible,\" cried Philip.\n\nShe sat down wearily.\n\n\"Did he give any reasons?\" he asked.\n\nShe gave him a crumpled letter.\n\n\"There's your letter, Philip. I never took it. I couldn't tell you\nyesterday, I really couldn't. Emil didn't marry me. He couldn't. He had a\nwife already and three children.\"\n\nPhilip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. It was almost more than\nhe could bear.\n\n\"That's why I couldn't go back to my aunt. There's no one I can go to but\nyou.\"\n\n\"What made you go away with him?\" Philip asked, in a low voice which he\nstruggled to make firm.\n\n\"I don't know. I didn't know he was a married man at first, and when he\ntold me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn't see him for\nmonths, and when he came to the shop again and asked me I don't know what\ncame over me. I felt as if I couldn't help it. I had to go with him.\"\n\n\"Were you in love with him?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I couldn't hardly help laughing at the things he said. And\nthere was something about him--he said I'd never regret it, he promised to\ngive me seven pounds a week--he said he was earning fifteen, and it was\nall a lie, he wasn't. And then I was sick of going to the shop every\nmorning, and I wasn't getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to\ntreat me as a servant instead of a relation, said I ought to do my own\nroom, and if I didn't do it nobody was going to do it for me. Oh, I wish\nI hadn't. But when he came to the shop and asked me I felt I couldn't help\nit.\"\n\nPhilip moved away from her. He sat down at the table and buried his face\nin his hands. He felt dreadfully humiliated.\n\n\"You're not angry with me, Philip?\" she asked piteously.\n\n\"No,\" he answered, looking up but away from her, \"only I'm awfully hurt.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything I could\nto make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of loving anyone.\nIt's so horrible to know that you were willing to sacrifice everything for\nthat bounder. I wonder what you saw in him.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards, I promise\nyou that.\"\n\nHe thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his shifty blue\neyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he always wore bright\nred knitted waistcoats. Philip sighed. She got up and went to him. She put\nher arm round his neck.\n\n\"I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip.\"\n\nHe took her hand and looked up at her. She bent down and kissed him.\n\n\"Philip, if you want me still I'll do anything you like now. I know you're\na gentleman in every sense of the word.\"\n\nHis heart stood still. Her words made him feel slightly sick.\n\n\"It's awfully good of you, but I couldn't.\"\n\n\"Don't you care for me any more?\"\n\n\"Yes, I love you with all my heart.\"\n\n\"Then why shouldn't we have a good time while we've got the chance? You\nsee, it can't matter now.\"\n\nHe released himself from her.\n\n\"You don't understand. I've been sick with love for you ever since I saw\nyou, but now--that man. I've unfortunately got a vivid imagination. The\nthought of it simply disgusts me.\"\n\n\"You are funny,\" she said.\n\nHe took her hand again and smiled at her.\n\n\"You mustn't think I'm not grateful. I can never thank you enough, but you\nsee, it's just stronger than I am.\"\n\n\"You are a good friend, Philip.\"\n\nThey went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar\ncompanionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that they should\ndine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted some persuasion, for she\nhad an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it\ndid not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of\nentertainment. At last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and\nwhen she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She\nhad a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him to take her\nto the little restaurant in Soho to which they had so often been; he was\ninfinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy\nmemories were attached to it. She grew much more cheerful as dinner\nproceeded. The Burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her\nheart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance.\nPhilip thought it safe to speak to her of the future.\n\n\"I suppose you haven't got a brass farthing, have you?\" he asked, when an\nopportunity presented itself.\n\n\"Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady three\npounds of that.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd better give you a tenner to go on with. I'll go and see my\nsolicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him pay up\nsomething, I'm sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out of him it'll carry\nyou on till after the baby comes.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't take a penny from him. I'd rather starve.\"\n\n\"But it's monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like this.\"\n\n\"I've got my pride to consider.\"\n\nIt was a little awkward for Philip. He needed rigid economy to make his\nown money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to\nkeep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and house\nsurgeon either at his own or at some other hospital. But Mildred had told\nhim various stories of Emil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate\nwith her in case she accused him too of want of generosity.\n\n\"I wouldn't take a penny piece from him. I'd sooner beg my bread. I'd have\nseen about getting some work to do long before now, only it wouldn't be\ngood for me in the state I'm in. You have to think of your health, don't\nyou?\"\n\n\"You needn't bother about the present,\" said Philip. \"I can let you have\nall you want till you're fit to work again.\"\n\n\"I knew I could depend on you. I told Emil he needn't think I hadn't got\nsomebody to go to. I told him you was a gentleman in every sense of the\nword.\"\n\nBy degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It appeared\nthat the fellow's wife had discovered the adventure he was engaged in\nduring his periodical visits to London, and had gone to the head of the\nfirm that employed him. She threatened to divorce him, and they announced\nthat they would dismiss him if she did. He was passionately devoted to his\nchildren and could not bear the thought of being separated from them. When\nhe had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his wife. He\nhad been always anxious that there should be no child to make the\nentanglement more complicated; and when Mildred, unable longer to conceal\nits approach, informed him of the fact, he was seized with panic. He\npicked a quarrel and left her without more ado.\n\n\"When d'you expect to be confined?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"At the beginning of March.\"\n\n\"Three months.\"\n\nIt was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would not remain\nin the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more convenient too that\nshe should be nearer to him. He promised to look for something next day.\nShe suggested the Vauxhall Bridge Road as a likely neighbourhood.\n\n\"And it would be near for afterwards,\" she said.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or a little\nmore, and then I should have to go into a house. I know a very respectable\nplace, where they have a most superior class of people, and they take you\nfor four guineas a week and no extras. Of course the doctor's extra, but\nthat's all. A friend of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a\nthorough lady. I mean to tell her that my husband's an officer in India\nand I've come to London for my baby, because it's better for my health.\"\n\nIt seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this way. With\nher delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and\nmaidenly. When he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so\nunexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. His pulse beat quickly.\n\n\n\nLXX\n\n\nPhilip expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his rooms,\nbut there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. The\nsilence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They had seen one\nanother every day he had been in London since the previous June; and it\nmust seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting\nher or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an\nunlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think\nthat she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that\nafternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed\nhimself to get on such intimate terms with her. The thought of continuing\nthem filled him with disgust.\n\nHe found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in the\nVauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she liked the\nrattle of traffic under her windows.\n\n\"I don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul pass all\nday,\" she said. \"Give me a bit of life.\"\n\nThen he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with\napprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was\ntreating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick\ntemper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her\nfrankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as\nviolent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to\noffer Norah any more. Then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she\nloved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but\nnow it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon\nher. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the\nstairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. He\nknocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal\nhis nervousness.\n\nShe was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he\nentered.\n\n\"I recognised your step,\" she cried. \"Where have you been hiding yourself,\nyou naughty boy?\"\n\nShe came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was\ndelighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself\ncountenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make the\nkettle boil.\n\n\"I've been awfully busy,\" he said lamely.\n\nShe began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new commission\nshe had to provide a novelette for a firm which had not hitherto employed\nher. She was to get fifteen guineas for it.\n\n\"It's money from the clouds. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll stand\nourselves a little jaunt. Let's go and spend a day at Oxford, shall we?\nI'd love to see the colleges.\"\n\nHe looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach in her\neyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was overjoyed to see\nhim. His heart sank. He could not tell her the brutal truth. She made some\ntoast for him, and cut it into little pieces, and gave it him as though he\nwere a child.\n\n\"Is the brute fed?\" she asked.\n\nHe nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as she loved to\ndo, she came and sat on his knees. She was very light. She leaned back in\nhis arms with a sigh of delicious happiness.\n\n\"Say something nice to me,\" she murmured.\n\n\"What shall I say?\"\n\n\"You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me.\"\n\n\"You know I do that.\"\n\nHe had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace at all\nevents for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. That would be\neasier. He could not bear to think of her crying. She made him kiss her,\nand as he kissed her he thought of Mildred and Mildred's pale, thin lips.\nThe recollection of Mildred remained with him all the time, like an\nincorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight\ncontinually distracted his attention.\n\n\"You're very quiet today,\" Norah said.\n\nHer loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:\n\n\"You never let me get a word in, and I've got out of the habit of\ntalking.\"\n\n\"But you're not listening, and that's bad manners.\"\n\nHe reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of his\nsecret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her irked him this\nafternoon, and he did not want her to touch him.\n\n\"My foot's gone to sleep,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" she cried, jumping up. \"I shall have to bant if I can't\nbreak myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen's knees.\"\n\nHe went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and walking about.\nThen he stood in front of the fire so that she should not resume her\nposition. While she talked he thought that she was worth ten of Mildred;\nshe amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and\nshe had a much nicer nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman;\nand Mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he\nhad any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much happier\nthan he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved him, and Mildred\nwas only grateful for his help. But when all was said the important thing\nwas to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his\nwhole soul. He would sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole\nafternoon with Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all\nNorah could give him.\n\n\"I can't help myself,\" he thought. \"I've just got her in my bones.\"\n\nHe did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and\ngrasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the one than\nhappiness with the other.\n\nWhen he got up to go Norah said casually:\n\n\"Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan't I?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered.\n\nHe knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help\nMildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. He made up\nhis mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw the rooms in the morning,\nwas satisfied with them, and after luncheon Philip went up with her to\nHighbury. She had a trunk for her clothes and another for the various odds\nand ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had\ntried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large\ncardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no more than could be put on\nthe roof of a four-wheeler. As they drove through Victoria Street Philip\nsat well back in the cab in case Norah should happen to be passing. He had\nnot had an opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post\noffice in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what he was\ndoing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could have no excuse\nfor not going into the neighbouring square where she lived. He made up his\nmind that he had better go in and see her for half an hour; but the\nnecessity irritated him: he was angry with Norah, because she forced him\nto vulgar and degrading shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It\namused him to help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming\nsense of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found\nand was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It was a pleasure\nto do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else\nseemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked her clothes and put them away.\nShe was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and took off\nher boots. It delighted him to perform menial offices.\n\n\"You do spoil me,\" she said, running her fingers affectionately through\nhis hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots.\n\nHe took her hands and kissed them.\n\n\"It is nipping to have you here.\"\n\nHe arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had several jars\nof green earthenware.\n\n\"I'll get you some flowers for them,\" he said.\n\nHe looked round at his work proudly.\n\n\"As I'm not going out any more I think I'll get into a tea-gown,\" she\nsaid. \"Undo me behind, will you?\"\n\nShe turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His sex meant\nnothing to her. But his heart was filled with gratitude for the intimacy\nher request showed. He undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers.\n\n\"That first day I came into the shop I never thought I'd be doing this for\nyou now,\" he said, with a laugh which he forced.\n\n\"Somebody must do it,\" she answered.\n\nShe went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown decorated\nwith a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled her on a sofa and\nmade tea for her.\n\n\"I'm afraid I can't stay and have it with you,\" he said regretfully. \"I've\ngot a beastly appointment. But I shall be back in half an hour.\"\n\nHe wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment was,\nbut she showed no curiosity. He had ordered dinner for the two of them\nwhen he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her\nquietly. He was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along the\nVauxhall Bridge Road. He thought he had better break the fact to Norah at\nonce that he could not stay more than a few minutes.\n\n\"I say, I've got only just time to say how d'you do,\" he said, as soon as\nhe got into her rooms. \"I'm frightfully busy.\"\n\nHer face fell.\n\n\"Why, what's the matter?\"\n\nIt exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew\nthat he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the\nhospital which he was bound to go to. He fancied that she looked as though\nshe did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more.\n\n\"Oh, well, it doesn't matter,\" she said. \"I shall have you all tomorrow.\"\n\nHe looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking forward\nto spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that he must do that in\ncommon decency; he could not leave her by herself in a strange house.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, I'm engaged tomorrow.\"\n\nHe knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given\nanything to avoid. The colour on Norah's cheeks grew brighter.\n\n\"But I've asked the Gordons to lunch\"--they were an actor and his wife who\nwere touring the provinces and in London for Sunday--\"I told you about it\na week ago.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, I forgot.\" He hesitated. \"I'm afraid I can't possibly\ncome. Isn't there somebody else you can get?\"\n\n\"What are you doing tomorrow then?\"\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't cross-examine me.\"\n\n\"Don't you want to tell me?\"\n\n\"I don't in the least mind telling you, but it's rather annoying to be\nforced to account for all one's movements.\"\n\nNorah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got the better\nof her temper, and going up to him took his hands.\n\n\"Don't disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I've been looking forward so much\nto spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see you, and we'll have\nsuch a jolly time.\"\n\n\"I'd love to if I could.\"\n\n\"I'm not very exacting, am I? I don't often ask you to do anything that's\na bother. Won't you get out of your horrid engagement--just this once?\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, I don't see how I can,\" he replied sullenly.\n\n\"Tell me what it is,\" she said coaxingly.\n\nHe had had time to invent something. \"Griffiths' two sisters are up for\nthe week-end and we're taking them out.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\" she said joyfully. \"Griffiths can so easily get another\nman.\"\n\nHe wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It was a\nclumsy lie.\n\n\"No, I'm awfully sorry, I can't--I've promised and I mean to keep my\npromise.\"\n\n\"But you promised me too. Surely I come first.\"\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't persist,\" he said.\n\nShe flared up.\n\n\"You won't come because you don't want to. I don't know what you've been\ndoing the last few days, you've been quite different.\"\n\nHe looked at his watch.\n\n\"I'm afraid I'll have to be going,\" he said.\n\n\"You won't come tomorrow?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"In that case you needn't trouble to come again,\" she cried, losing her\ntemper for good.\n\n\"That's just as you like,\" he answered.\n\n\"Don't let me detain you any longer,\" she added ironically.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that it had gone\nno worse. There had been no tears. As he walked along he congratulated\nhimself on getting out of the affair so easily. He went into Victoria\nStreet and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred.\n\nThe little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a small pot of\ncaviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them\nup some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy,\nwhich was her favourite wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and\none of Mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.\n\n\"It's really just like home,\" smiled Philip.\n\n\"I might be worse off, mightn't I?\" she answered.\n\nWhen they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and\nthey sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt happy and generous.\n\n\"What would you like to do tomorrow?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I'm going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the shop,\nwell, she's married now, and she's asked me to go and spend the day with\nher. Of course she thinks I'm married too.\"\n\nPhilip's heart sank.\n\n\"But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you.\"\n\nHe thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would\nstay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not have hesitated.\n\n\"Well, you were a silly to do that. I've promised to go for three weeks\nand more.\"\n\n\"But how can you go alone?\"\n\n\"Oh, I shall say that Emil's away on business. Her husband's in the glove\ntrade, and he's a very superior fellow.\"\n\nPhilip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. She gave\nhim a sidelong glance.\n\n\"You don't grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it's the last\ntime I shall be able to go anywhere for I don't know how long, and I had\npromised.\"\n\nHe took her hand and smiled.\n\n\"No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only want you to\nbe happy.\"\n\nThere was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on\nthe sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette, and the\nauthor was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah wrote.\n\n\"I do like his books,\" said Mildred. \"I read them all. They're so\nrefined.\"\n\nHe remembered what Norah had said of herself.\n\n\"I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so\ngenteel.\"\n\n\n\nLXXI\n\n\nPhilip, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had told him the details of\nhis own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast when\nthey sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the\nscene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got\nout of his difficulties so easily.\n\n\"It's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman,\" he\nremarked sententiously, \"but it's a devil of a nuisance to get out of it.\"\n\nPhilip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in\nmanaging the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He thought\nof Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in himself a real\nsatisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his\npart that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own\ndisappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.\n\nBut on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She\nwrote:\n\n\nDearest,\n\nI'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the\nafternoon as usual. I love you.\n\nYour Norah.\n\n\nHis heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to\nGriffiths and showed it to him.\n\n\"You'd better leave it unanswered,\" said he.\n\n\"Oh, I can't,\" cried Philip. \"I should be miserable if I thought of her\nwaiting and waiting. You don't know what it is to be sick for the\npostman's knock. I do, and I can't expose anybody else to that torture.\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without somebody\nsuffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is, it doesn't\nlast very long.\"\n\nPhilip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer;\nand what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable\nof? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she was going to\nbe married. He did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced\nthen.\n\n\"If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her,\" said\nGriffiths.\n\n\"I can't do that.\"\n\nHe got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with\nNorah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that he\nhad no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at seeing\nthose things.\n\n\"You might help me,\" he said to Griffiths.\n\n\"My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. People do get over these\nthings, you know. She probably isn't so wrapped up in you as you think,\neither. One's always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one's inspired\nother people with.\"\n\nHe paused and looked at Philip with amusement.\n\n\"Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell her\nthe thing's over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it. It'll\nhurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you\ntry half-hearted ways.\"\n\nPhilip sat down and wrote the following letter:\n\n\nMy dear Norah,\n\nI am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things\nremain where we left them on Saturday. I don't think there's any use in\nletting these things drag on when they've ceased to be amusing. You told\nme to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye.\n                                                   Philip Carey.\n\n\nHe showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it.\nGriffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not say\nwhat he felt.\n\n\"I think that'll do the trick,\" he said.\n\nPhilip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for he\nimagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received his\nletter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same\ntime he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief\nseen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart\nleaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's\nwork at the hospital was over.\n\nWhen as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner\nput the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.\n\n\"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour.\"\n\nIt was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke\ngaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to\nindicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered.\nHe was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.\n\n\"Yes, do,\" he said.\n\nHe opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was\nnervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit\none for himself. She looked at him brightly.\n\n\"Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I'd taken\nit seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched.\"\n\n\"It was meant seriously,\" he answered gravely.\n\n\"Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and\napologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to apologise again.\nAfter all, you're your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don't\nwant you to do anything you don't want to.\"\n\nShe got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him\nimpulsively, with outstretched hands.\n\n\"Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended you.\"\n\nHe could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at\nher.\n\n\"I'm afraid it's too late,\" he said.\n\nShe let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees.\n\n\"Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can understand that\nI hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it. What's the good of making\nus both unhappy? It's been so jolly, our friendship.\" She passed her\nfingers slowly over his hand. \"I love you, Philip.\"\n\nHe got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the\nroom.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's over.\"\n\n\"D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so.\"\n\n\"You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took\nthat one?\"\n\nHe did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed\nintolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning\nagainst the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to\nhide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the\nother. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned\naway.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't love you.\"\n\nShe did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed,\nand the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if\nshe had reproached him. He had thought her temper would get the better of\nher, and he was prepared for that. At the back of his mind was a feeling\nthat a real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would\nin some way be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last\nhe grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room and got\na glass of water; he leaned over her.\n\n\"Won't you drink a little? It'll relieve you.\"\n\nShe put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three mouthfuls.\nThen in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a handkerchief. She dried\nher eyes.\n\n\"Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you,\" she moaned.\n\n\"I'm afraid that's always the case,\" he said. \"There's always one who\nloves and one who lets himself be loved.\"\n\nHe thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. Norah did\nnot answer for a long time.\n\n\"I'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful,\" she said at\nlast.\n\nShe did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her before\ncomplain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. He\nhad always admired the bold front she displayed to the world.\n\n\"And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I admired you\nbecause you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone I could put\nmy trust in. I loved you. I never thought it could come to an end. And\nwithout any fault of mine at all.\"\n\nHer tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of herself,\nand she hid her face in Philip's handkerchief. She tried hard to control\nherself.\n\n\"Give me some more water,\" she said.\n\nShe wiped her eyes.\n\n\"I'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I'm very grateful for\nall you've done for me.\"\n\nHe wondered what it was she saw in him.\n\n\"Oh, it's always the same,\" she sighed, \"if you want men to behave well to\nyou, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you\nsuffer for it.\"\n\nShe got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long,\nsteady look. Then she sighed.\n\n\"It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?\"\n\nPhilip took a sudden determination.\n\n\"I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to think too badly of me,\nI want you to see that I can't help myself. Mildred's come back.\"\n\nThe colour came to her face.\n\n\"Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that surely.\"\n\n\"I was afraid to.\"\n\nShe looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.\n\n\"Will you call me a cab,\" she said. \"I don't feel I can walk.\"\n\nHe went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed\nhim into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was a\nheaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. She\nlooked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone.\n\n\"I'll drive back with you if you don't mind.\"\n\nShe did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in silence\nover the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill\ncries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did not\nimmediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon enough\nstrength to her legs to move.\n\n\"I hope you'll forgive me, Norah,\" he said.\n\nShe turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again\nwith tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.\n\n\"Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You mustn't bother. I don't\nblame you. I shall get over it all right.\"\n\nLightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no\nill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped\nout of the cab and let herself into her house.\n\nPhilip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's lodgings. There was a\ncurious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself. But\nwhy? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a fruiterer's,\nhe remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he\ncould show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had.\n\n\n\nLXXII\n\n\nFor the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took\nhis books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa\nreading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A\nhappy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her.\n\n\"Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"Tyrant,\" he answered gaily.\n\nHe put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for\ndinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a\nlittle cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue.\nMildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate\nbut mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the\npass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no\ntrouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred's sense of\npropriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her\nbrother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered\nsomething which tempted Mildred's capricious appetite. It enchanted him to\nsee her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he\ntook her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the\nfire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against\nher knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes\nPhilip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He dared not move then in\ncase he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire\nand enjoying his happiness.\n\n\"Had a nice little nap?\" he smiled, when she woke.\n\n\"I've not been sleeping,\" she answered. \"I only just closed my eyes.\"\n\nShe would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a phlegmatic\ntemperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. She\ntook a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone\nwho chose to offer it. She went for a 'constitutional' every morning that\nit was fine and remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she\nsat in St. James' Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on\nher sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady;\nshe had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant\ndetail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room\nfloor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now\nand then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip\nabout the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die;\nshe gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the\nlady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; \"I'm one to keep\nmyself to myself,\" she said, \"I'm not one to go about with anybody.\") and\nshe narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the\nmost part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.\n\n\"After all, I'm not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the doctor\nsays I shan't have any trouble. You see, it isn't as if I wasn't well\nmade.\"\n\nMrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had\nrecommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week. He was to charge\nfifteen guineas.\n\n\"Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen strongly\nrecommended him, and I thought it wasn't worth while to spoil the ship for\na coat of tar.\"\n\n\"If you feel happy and comfortable I don't mind a bit about the expense,\"\nsaid Philip.\n\nShe accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most natural\nthing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend money on her: each\nfive-pound note he gave her caused him a little thrill of happiness and\npride; he gave her a good many, for she was not economical.\n\n\"I don't know where the money goes to,\" she said herself, \"it seems to\nslip through my fingers like water.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" said Philip. \"I'm so glad to be able to do anything\nI can for you.\"\n\nShe could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things for the\nbaby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to buy them. Philip\nhad lately sold one of the mortgages in which his money had been put; and\nnow, with five hundred pounds in the bank waiting to be invested in\nsomething that could be more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly\nwell-to-do. They talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that\nMildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her\nliving to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also\nto look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of\nthe company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put\nwith some decent woman in the country.\n\n\"I can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and sixpence a\nweek. It'll be better for the baby and better for me.\"\n\nIt seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with her she\npretended to think he was concerned with the expense.\n\n\"You needn't worry about that,\" she said. \"I shan't ask YOU to pay for\nit.\"\n\n\"You know I don't care how much I pay.\"\n\nAt the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be\nstill-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that the thought\nwas there. He was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he\nwas obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be\ndesired.\n\n\"It's all very fine to say this and that,\" Mildred remarked querulously,\n\"but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it\ndoesn't make it any easier when she's got a baby.\"\n\n\"Fortunately you've got me to fall back on,\" smiled Philip, taking her\nhand.\n\n\"You've been good to me, Philip.\"\n\n\"Oh, what rot!\"\n\n\"You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for what you've done.\"\n\n\"Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done anything for you, I've\ndone it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I don't want you to do\nanything unless you love me.\"\n\nHe was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity\nwhich she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services\nrendered.\n\n\"But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to me.\"\n\n\"Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all right again we'll go for\nour little honeymoon.\"\n\n\"You are naughty,\" she said, smiling.\n\nMildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as she was\nwell enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give\nPhilip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after\nthat came the Easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris\ntogether. Philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was\ndelightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the\nLatin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little\nrestaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music\nhalls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked to her about\nCronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris\nfor a couple of months; and they would go to the Bal Bullier; there were\nexcursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres, Fontainebleau.\n\n\"It'll cost a lot of money,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, damn the expense. Think how I've been looking forward to it. Don't\nyou know what it means to me? I've never loved anyone but you. I never\nshall.\"\n\nShe listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he saw in\nthem a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She was much gentler\nthan she used to be. There was in her no longer the superciliousness which\nhad irritated him. She was so accustomed to him now that she took no pains\nto keep up before him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair\nwith the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the\nvast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited her.\nHer face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large; there were\nheavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks made their colour\nmore profound. She had a wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There\nseemed to Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they\ncould continue in that same way always. He was happier than he had ever\nbeen in his life.\n\nHe used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for she liked to go to\nbed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple of hours' work to\nmake up for the lost evening. He generally brushed her hair for her before\nhe went. He had made a ritual of the kisses he gave her when he bade her\ngood-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers\nwere, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring\nthem,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the\nleft, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with a heart\noverflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire\nfor self-sacrifice which consumed him.\n\nPresently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home where she was\nto be confined. Philip was then able to visit her only in the afternoons.\nMildred changed her story and represented herself as the wife of a soldier\nwho had gone to India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to\nthe mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law.\n\n\"I have to be rather careful what I say,\" she told him, \"as there's\nanother lady here whose husband's in the Indian Civil.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't let that disturb me if I were you,\" said Philip. \"I'm\nconvinced that her husband and yours went out on the same boat.\"\n\n\"What boat?\" she asked innocently.\n\n\"The Flying Dutchman.\"\n\nMildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was allowed to\nsee her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was very weak, but\nrelieved that everything was over. She showed him the baby, and herself\nlooked at it curiously.\n\n\"It's a funny-looking little thing, isn't it? I can't believe it's mine.\"\n\nIt was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at it. He\ndid not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse\nwho owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt by the way she\nwas looking at him that, disbelieving Mildred's complicated story, she\nthought he was the father.\n\n\"What are you going to call her?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"I can't make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or Cecilia.\"\n\nThe nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent down and\nkissed Mildred on the mouth.\n\n\"I'm so glad it's all over happily, darling.\"\n\nShe put her thin arms round his neck.\n\n\"You have been a brick to me, Phil dear.\"\n\n\"Now I feel that you're mine at last. I've waited so long for you, my\ndear.\"\n\nThey heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up. The nurse\nentered. There was a slight smile on her lips.\n\n\n\nLXXIII\n\n\nThree weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to Brighton. She had\nmade a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her. She was\ngoing to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends with\nEmil Miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go to\nGermany on business and she was coming down with her baby. She got\npleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain\nfertility of invention in the working out of the details. Mildred proposed\nto find in Brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of the\nbaby. Philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted on\ngetting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor\nchild had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philip\nhad expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had had\nthe baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuade\nher to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred. Mildred was not unkind\nto her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and\nshe talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it.\nShe could not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembled\nits father already. She was continually wondering how she would manage\nwhen it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such a\nfool as to have it at all.\n\n\"If I'd only known then all I do now,\" she said.\n\nShe laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare.\n\n\"You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father,\" she said. \"I'd like\nto see Emil getting into such a stew about it.\"\n\nPhilip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and the\nghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parents\nhave put in their charge.\n\n\"Don't be so silly,\" said Mildred. \"That's when you give a woman a sum\ndown to look after a baby. But when you're going to pay so much a week\nit's to their interest to look after it well.\"\n\nPhilip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people who had no\nchildren of their own and would promise to take no other.\n\n\"Don't haggle about the price,\" he said. \"I'd rather pay half a guinea a\nweek than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten.\"\n\n\"You're a funny old thing, Philip,\" she laughed.\n\nTo him there was something very touching in the child's helplessness. It\nwas small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had been looked forward to with\nshame and anguish. Nobody wanted it. It was dependent on him, a stranger,\nfor food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness.\n\nAs the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the baby too,\nbut he was afraid she would laugh at him.\n\n\"You will write to me, darling, won't you? And I shall look forward to\nyour coming back with oh! such impatience.\"\n\n\"Mind you get through your exam.\"\n\nHe had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten days\nbefore him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to pass, first to\nsave himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his\nfingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and then\nbecause this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that the\nstudent had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of\nwhich was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had\nbeen hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the rest\nof the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to Mildred that he\nhad failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority of\ncandidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would\nthink less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarly\nhumiliating way of showing what she thought.\n\nMildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatched\nhalf an hour every day to write a long letter to her. He had always a\ncertain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he\ncould tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have made\nhim feel ridiculous to say. Profiting by the discovery he poured out to\nher his whole heart. He had never been able to tell her before how his\nadoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his\nthoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future, the\nhappiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. He\nasked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it into\nwords) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight;\nhe did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and\nwhen she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he\nknew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his\nbody so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his\nlungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almost\npain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not having\neaten, he were tremulous from want of food. He looked forward eagerly to\nher answers. He did not expect her to write often, for he knew that\nletter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the\nclumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of the\nboarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby,\ntold him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom she\nhad met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, she\nwas going to the theatre on Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up.\nIt touched Philip because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, the\nformality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take her\nin his arms and kiss her.\n\nHe went into the examination with happy confidence. There was nothing in\neither of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew that he had done well,\nand though the second part of the examination was viva voce and he was\nmore nervous, he managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent a\ntriumphant telegram to Mildred when the result was announced.\n\nWhen he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her, saying that\nshe thought it would be better for her to stay another week in Brighton.\nShe had found a woman who would be glad to take the baby for seven\nshillings a week, but she wanted to make inquiries about her, and she was\nherself benefiting so much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days\nmore would do her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, but\nwould he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, she\ncouldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and her\nlady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of bitter disappointment.\nIt took away all his pleasure at getting through his examination.\n\n\"If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn't bear to\nstay away a day longer than necessary.\"\n\nHe put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure selfishness; of\ncourse her health was more important than anything else. But he had\nnothing to do now; he might spend the week with her in Brighton, and they\ncould be together all day. His heart leaped at the thought. It would be\namusing to appear before Mildred suddenly with the information that he had\ntaken a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he paused.\nHe was not certain that she would be pleased to see him; she had made\nfriends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked boisterous joviality; he\nrealised that she amused herself more with other people than with him. It\nwould torture him if he felt for an instant that he was in the way. He was\nafraid to risk it. He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing\nto keep him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see\nher every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him to come\nshe would have asked him to. He dared not risk the anguish he would suffer\nif he proposed to come and she made excuses to prevent him.\n\nHe wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the end of\nhis letter said that if she were very nice and cared to see him for the\nweek-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no means to alter\nany plans she had made. He awaited her answer with impatience. In it she\nsaid that if she had only known before she could have arranged it, but she\nhad promised to go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, it\nwould make the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Why\ndid he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could lunch at\nthe Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see the very superior\nlady-like person who was going to take the baby.\n\nSunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train approached\nBrighton the sun poured through the carriage window. Mildred was waiting\nfor him on the platform.\n\n\"How jolly of you to come and meet me!\" he cried, as he seized her hands.\n\n\"You expected me, didn't you?\"\n\n\"I hoped you would. I say, how well you're looking.\"\n\n\"It's done me a rare lot of good, but I think I'm wise to stay here as\nlong as I can. And there are a very nice class of people at the\nboarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody all these months.\nIt was dull sometimes.\"\n\nShe looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with a great\nmany inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck floated a long boa of\nimitation swansdown. She was still very thin, and she stooped a little\nwhen she walked (she had always done that,) but her eyes did not seem so\nlarge; and though she never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy\nlook it had. They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had not\nwalked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp and walked\nstiffly in the attempt to conceal it.\n\n\"Are you glad to see me?\" he asked, love dancing madly in his heart.\n\n\"Of course I am. You needn't ask that.\"\n\n\"By the way, Griffiths sends you his love.\"\n\n\"What cheek!\"\n\nHe had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her how\nflirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some\nadventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him.\nMildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but\ngenerally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his\nfriend's good looks and charm.\n\n\"I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's so jolly and amusing,\nand he's such an awfully good sort.\"\n\nPhilip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths had\nnursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths'\nself-sacrifice lost nothing.\n\n\"You can't help liking him,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I don't like good-looking men,\" said Mildred. \"They're too conceited for\nme.\"\n\n\"He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you an awful lot.\"\n\n\"What have you said?\" asked Mildred.\n\nPhilip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, and\nlittle by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her.\nHe described her to him fifty times. He dwelt amorously on every detail of\nher appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped\nand how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the\ncharm of her pale, thin lips.\n\n\"By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that,\" he said. \"Life\nwouldn't be worth living.\"\n\nPhilip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in\nlove that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever\nelse was essential to existence. Griffiths knew that Philip had looked\nafter the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with\nher.\n\n\"Well, I must say you've deserved to get something,\" he remarked. \"It must\nhave cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you can afford it.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" said Philip. \"But what do I care!\"\n\nSince it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of the\nshelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass.\nThere were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging\ntheir canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in\ngiggling bunches. They could tell the people who had come down from London\nfor the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were\nmany Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little\ncorpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-aged\ngentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully\ndressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast\nto give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: they\nexchanged the time of day with friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or\nLondon-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately\nunconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather\nboots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed\nstick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day's shooting,\nhe strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat\non the back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea\nwas trim and neat.\n\nAfter luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to take charge\nof the baby. She lived in a small house in a back street, but it was clean\nand tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding. She was an elderly, stout person,\nwith gray hair and a red, fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and\nPhilip thought she seemed kind.\n\n\"Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?\" he asked her.\n\nShe explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older than\nherself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wanted\nyoung men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by doing locums\nwhen someone took a holiday or fell ill, and a charitable institution gave\nthem a small pension; but her life was lonely, it would be something to do\nto look after a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help\nher to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed.\n\n\"Quite the lady, isn't she?\" said Mildred, when they went away.\n\nThey went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the crowd and\nthe band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched her face as she\nlooked with keen eyes at the dresses of the women who came in. She had a\npeculiar sharpness for reckoning up what things cost, and now and then she\nleaned over to him and whispered the result of her meditations.\n\n\"D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven guineas.\"\n\nOr: \"Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit, that is--that's not\nermine.\" She laughed triumphantly. \"I'd know it a mile off.\"\n\nPhilip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and the\ningenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The band played\nsentimental music.\n\nAfter dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took her arm. He\ntold her what arrangements he had made for their journey to France. She\nwas to come up to London at the end of the week, but she told him that she\ncould not go away till the Saturday of the week after that. He had already\nengaged a room in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to\ntaking the tickets.\n\n\"You won't mind going second-class, will you? We mustn't be extravagant,\nand it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves pretty well when we get\nthere.\"\n\nHe had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would wander\nthrough its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly in the charming\ngardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was fine perhaps, when they had\nhad enough of Paris, they might go to Fontainebleau. The trees would be\njust bursting into leaf. The green of the forest in spring was more\nbeautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the\nhappy pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and tried\nto look deep into her eyes.\n\n\"You do want to come, don't you?\" he said.\n\n\"Of course I do,\" she smiled.\n\n\"You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I don't know how I shall\nget through the next days. I'm so afraid something will happen to prevent\nit. It maddens me sometimes that I can't tell you how much I love you. And\nat last, at last...\"\n\nHe broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on the way,\nand Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed her quickly and\nran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She stood where he left her.\nHe was strangely grotesque when he ran.\n\n\n\nLXXIV\n\n\nThe following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip kept her\nto himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank champagne at\ndinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so long that she enjoyed\neverything ingenuously. She cuddled up to Philip when they drove from the\ntheatre to the room he had taken for her in Pimlico.\n\n\"I really believe you're quite glad to see me,\" he said.\n\nShe did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations of\naffection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted.\n\n\"I've asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow,\" he told her.\n\n\"Oh, I'm glad you've done that. I wanted to meet him.\"\n\nThere was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday night, and\nPhilip was afraid she would be bored if she were alone with him all day.\nGriffiths was amusing; he would help them to get through the evening; and\nPhilip was so fond of them both that he wanted them to know and to like\none another. He left Mildred with the words:\n\n\"Only six days more.\"\n\nThey had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano's on Sunday, because\nthe dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a good deal more\nthan it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and had to wait some time\nfor Griffiths.\n\n\"He's an unpunctual devil,\" said Philip. \"He's probably making love to one\nof his numerous flames.\"\n\nBut presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and thin; his\nhead was placed well on the body, it gave him a conquering air which was\nattractive; and his curly hair, his bold, friendly blue eyes, his red\nmouth, were charming. Philip saw Mildred look at him with appreciation,\nand he felt a curious satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile.\n\n\"I've heard a great deal about you,\" he said to Mildred, as he took her\nhand.\n\n\"Not so much as I've heard about you,\" she answered.\n\n\"Nor so bad,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Has he been blackening my character?\"\n\nGriffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white and\nregular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.\n\n\"You ought to feel like old friends,\" said Philip. \"I've talked so much\nabout you to one another.\"\n\nGriffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed\nhis final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed\nhouse-surgeon at a hospital in the North of London. He was taking up his\nduties at the beginning of May and meanwhile was going home for a holiday;\nthis was his last week in town, and he was determined to get as much\nenjoyment into it as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which\nPhilip admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in\nwhat he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from him a\nforce of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost as\nsensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively than Philip had ever\nknown her, and he was delighted to see that his little party was a\nsuccess. She was amusing herself enormously. She laughed louder and\nlouder. She quite forgot the genteel reserve which had become second\nnature to her.\n\nPresently Griffiths said:\n\n\"I say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller. Philip\nnever calls you anything but Mildred.\"\n\n\"I daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you call her that too,\"\nlaughed Philip.\n\n\"Then she must call me Harry.\"\n\nPhilip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to\nsee people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a little, kindly,\nbecause he was always so serious.\n\n\"I believe he's quite fond of you, Philip,\" smiled Mildred.\n\n\"He isn't a bad old thing,\" answered Griffiths, and taking Philip's hand\nhe shook it gaily.\n\nIt seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They were all\nsober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads. Griffiths\nbecame more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg\nhim to be quiet. He had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost\nnothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration. He played in\nall of them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with\nexcitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote. When the\nlights began to be turned out she was astonished.\n\n\"My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn't more than half\npast nine.\"\n\nThey got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:\n\n\"I'm coming to have tea at Philip's room tomorrow. You might look in if\nyou can.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he smiled.\n\nOn the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but Griffiths. She\nwas taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his\ngaiety.\n\n\"I am glad you like him,\" said Philip. \"D'you remember you were rather\nsniffy about meeting him?\"\n\n\"I think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is a nice\nfriend for you to have.\"\n\nShe put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a thing she did\nrarely.\n\n\"I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much.\"\n\n\"Don't be so absurd,\" he laughed, touched by her appreciation so that he\nfelt the moisture come to his eyes.\n\nShe opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to Philip.\n\n\"Tell Harry I'm madly in love with him,\" she said.\n\n\"All right,\" he laughed. \"Good-night.\"\n\nNext day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank lazily\ninto an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual in the slow\nmovements of his large limbs. Philip remained silent, while the others\nchattered away, but he was enjoying himself. He admired them both so much\nthat it seemed natural enough for them to admire one another. He did not\ncare if Griffiths absorbed Mildred's attention, he would have her to\nhimself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of a loving\nhusband, confident in his wife's affection, who looks on with amusement\nwhile she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. But at half past seven he\nlooked at his watch and said:\n\n\"It's about time we went out to dinner, Mildred.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause, and Griffiths seemed to be considering.\n\n\"Well, I'll be getting along,\" he said at last. \"I didn't know it was so\nlate.\"\n\n\"Are you doing anything tonight?\" asked Mildred.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThere was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.\n\n\"I'll just go and have a wash,\" he said, and to Mildred he added: \"Would\nyou like to wash your hands?\"\n\nShe did not answer him.\n\n\"Why don't you come and dine with us?\" she said to Griffiths.\n\nHe looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.\n\n\"I dined with you last night,\" he laughed. \"I should be in the way.\"\n\n\"Oh, that doesn't matter,\" insisted Mildred. \"Make him come, Philip. He\nwon't be in the way, will he?\"\n\n\"Let him come by all means if he'd like to.\"\n\n\"All right, then,\" said Griffiths promptly. \"I'll just go upstairs and\ntidy myself.\"\n\nThe moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.\n\n\"Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?\"\n\n\"I couldn't help myself. It would have looked so funny to say nothing when\nhe said he wasn't doing anything.\"\n\n\"Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing anything?\"\n\nMildred's pale lips tightened a little.\n\n\"I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being alone with\nyou.\"\n\nThey heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip went into\nhis bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood in an Italian\nrestaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he quickly realised that he\nwas showing to disadvantage in comparison with Griffiths, and he forced\nhimself to hide his annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the\npain that was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred,\nas though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to make\nherself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate. Presently Philip\nbegan to think he had been a fool to surrender to a feeling of jealousy.\nAfter dinner when they got into a hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred,\nsitting between the two men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His\nanger vanished. Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that\nGriffiths was holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently,\nit was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he\nmight have asked himself before, whether Mildred and Griffiths were in\nlove with one another. He could not see anything of the performance on\naccount of the mist of suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which\nseemed to be before his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact\nthat anything was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a\nstrange desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he\nwanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had never been\nalone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them by themselves.\n\n\"I'll come too,\" said Griffiths. \"I've got rather a thirst on.\"\n\n\"Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred.\"\n\nPhilip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them together now to\nmake the pain he suffered more intolerable. He did not go to the bar, but\nup into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be seen. They\nhad ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one another's eyes.\nGriffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to\nhang on his lips. Philip's head began to ache frightfully. He stood there\nmotionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went back. They were\nenjoying themselves without him, and he was suffering, suffering. Time\npassed, and now he had an extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He\nknew they had not thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he\nhad paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a fool\nthey were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could see how happy\nthey were without him. His instinct was to leave them to themselves and go\nhome, but he had not his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless\nexplanations. He went back. He felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred's\neyes when she saw him, and his heart sank.\n\n\"You've been a devil of a time,\" said Griffiths, with a smile of welcome.\n\n\"I met some men I knew. I've been talking to them, and I couldn't get\naway. I thought you'd be all right together.\"\n\n\"I've been enjoying myself thoroughly,\" said Griffiths. \"I don't know\nabout Mildred.\"\n\nShe gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar sound in\nthe ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that they should go.\n\n\"Come on,\" said Griffiths, \"we'll both drive you home.\"\n\nPhilip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she might\nnot be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take her hand nor did\nshe offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding Griffiths'.\nHis chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar. As they drove\nalong he asked himself what plans they had made to meet without his\nknowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he had actually\ngone out of his way to enable them to arrange things.\n\n\"Let's keep the cab,\" said Philip, when they reached the house in which\nMildred was lodging. \"I'm too tired to walk home.\"\n\nOn the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact\nthat Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice that\nsomething was the matter. Philip's silence at last grew too significant to\nstruggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip\nwanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself\nto, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. It was\nbest to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to speak.\n\n\"Are you in love with Mildred?\" he asked suddenly.\n\n\"I?\" Griffiths laughed. \"Is that what you've been so funny about this\nevening? Of course not, my dear old man.\"\n\nHe tried to slip his hand through Philip's arm, but Philip drew himself\naway. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force\nGriffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl's hand. He\nsuddenly felt very weak and broken.\n\n\"It doesn't matter to you, Harry,\" he said. \"You've got so many\nwomen--don't take her away from me. It means my whole life. I've been so\nawfully wretched.\"\n\nHis voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him.\nHe was horribly ashamed of himself.\n\n\"My dear old boy, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'm far too\nfond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I'd known you were\ngoing to take it like that I'd have been more careful.\"\n\n\"Is that true?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"I don't care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of honour.\"\n\nPhilip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.\n\n\n\nLXXV\n\n\nNext day Philip was in a good temper. He was very anxious not to bore\nMildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged that he should\nnot see her till dinner-time. She was ready when he fetched her, and he\nchaffed her for her unwonted punctuality. She was wearing a new dress he\nhad given her. He remarked on its smartness.\n\n\"It'll have to go back and be altered,\" she said. \"The skirt hangs all\nwrong.\"\n\n\"You'll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take it to\nParis with you.\"\n\n\"It'll be ready in time for that.\"\n\n\"Only three more whole days. We'll go over by the eleven o'clock, shall\nwe?\"\n\n\"If you like.\"\n\nHe would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His eyes rested\non her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh a little at his own\npassion.\n\n\"I wonder what it is I see in you,\" he smiled.\n\n\"That's a nice thing to say,\" she answered.\n\nHer body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her chest was\nas flat as a boy's. Her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and\nher skin was faintly green.\n\n\"I shall give you Blaud's Pills in quantities when we're away,\" said\nPhilip, laughing. \"I'm going to bring you back fat and rosy.\"\n\n\"I don't want to get fat,\" she said.\n\nShe did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were dining\nPhilip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her,\nsaid:\n\n\"It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry last night?\"\n\n\"I told you I was in love with him,\" she laughed.\n\n\"I'm glad to know that he's not in love with you.\"\n\n\"How d'you know?\"\n\n\"I asked him.\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam came into\nher eyes.\n\n\"Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?\"\n\nShe handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths' bold, legible\nwriting. There were eight pages. It was well written, frank and charming;\nit was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women. He told\nMildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the\nfirst moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond\nPhilip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was such a dear,\nand he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was\njust carried away. He paid her delightful compliments. Finally he thanked\nher for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully\nimpatient to see her. Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night\nbefore; Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had taken\nthe trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he was in bed.\n\nHe read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward\nsign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with a smile, calmly.\n\n\"Did you enjoy your lunch?\"\n\n\"Rather,\" she said emphatically.\n\nHe felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table.\n\n\"You mustn't take Griffiths too seriously. He's just a butterfly, you\nknow.\"\n\nShe took the letter and looked at it again.\n\n\"I can't help it either,\" she said, in a voice which she tried to make\nnonchalant. \"I don't know what's come over me.\"\n\n\"It's a little awkward for me, isn't it?\" said Philip.\n\nShe gave him a quick look.\n\n\"You're taking it pretty calmly, I must say.\"\n\n\"What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to tear out my hair in\nhandfuls?\"\n\n\"I knew you'd be angry with me.\"\n\n\"The funny thing is, I'm not at all. I ought to have known this would\nhappen. I was a fool to bring you together. I know perfectly well that\nhe's got every advantage over me; he's much jollier, and he's very\nhandsome, he's more amusing, he can talk to you about the things that\ninterest you.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by that. If I'm not clever I can't help it,\nbut I'm not the fool you think I am, not by a long way, I can tell you.\nYou're a bit too superior for me, my young friend.\"\n\n\"D'you want to quarrel with me?\" he asked mildly.\n\n\"No, but I don't see why you should treat me as if I was I don't know\nwhat.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to talk things over\nquietly. We don't want to make a mess of them if we can help it. I saw you\nwere attracted by him and it seemed to me very natural. The only thing\nthat really hurts me is that he should have encouraged you. He knew how\nawfully keen I was on you. I think it's rather shabby of him to have\nwritten that letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn't care\ntwopence about you.\"\n\n\"If you think you're going to make me like him any the less by saying\nnasty things about him, you're mistaken.\"\n\nPhilip was silent for a moment. He did not know what words he could use to\nmake her see his point of view. He wanted to speak coolly and\ndeliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion that he could not\nclear his thoughts.\n\n\"It's not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation that you\nknow can't last. After all, he doesn't care for anyone more than ten days,\nand you're rather cold; that sort of thing doesn't mean very much to you.\"\n\n\"That's what you think.\"\n\nShe made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous tone.\n\n\"If you're in love with him you can't help it. I'll just bear it as best\nI can. We get on very well together, you and I, and I've not behaved badly\nto you, have I? I've always known that you're not in love with me, but you\nlike me all right, and when we get over to Paris you'll forget about\nGriffiths. If you make up your mind to put him out of your thoughts you\nwon't find it so hard as all that, and I've deserved that you should do\nsomething for me.\"\n\nShe did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. When the silence\ngrew oppressive Philip began to talk of indifferent things. He pretended\nnot to notice that Mildred was inattentive. Her answers were perfunctory,\nand she volunteered no remarks of her own. At last she interrupted\nabruptly what he was saying:\n\n\"Philip, I'm afraid I shan't be able to go away on Saturday. The doctor\nsays I oughtn't to.\"\n\nHe knew this was not true, but he answered:\n\n\"When will you be able to come away?\"\n\nShe glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and looked\nnervously away. She was at that moment a little afraid of him.\n\n\"I may as well tell you and have done with it, I can't come away with you\nat all.\"\n\n\"I thought you were driving at that. It's too late to change your mind\nnow. I've got the tickets and everything.\"\n\n\"You said you didn't wish me to go unless I wanted it too, and I don't.\"\n\n\"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to have any more tricks played with\nme. You must come.\"\n\n\"I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I can't bear to think of\nanything else. I don't like you that way. I couldn't, Philip.\"\n\n\"You were quite willing to a week ago.\"\n\n\"It was different then.\"\n\n\"You hadn't met Griffiths?\"\n\n\"You said yourself I couldn't help it if I'm in love with him.\"\n\nHer face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed on her\nplate. Philip was white with rage. He would have liked to hit her in the\nface with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw how she would look with\na black eye. There were two lads of eighteen dining at a table near them,\nand now and then they looked at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him\ndining with a pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his\nshoes. It was Mildred who broke the silence.\n\n\"What's the good of our going away together? I'd be thinking of him all\nthe time. It wouldn't be much fun for you.\"\n\n\"That's my business,\" he answered.\n\nShe thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened.\n\n\"But that's just beastly.\"\n\n\"What of it?\"\n\n\"I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word.\"\n\n\"You were mistaken.\"\n\nHis reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it.\n\n\"For God's sake don't laugh,\" she cried. \"I can't come away with you,\nPhilip. I'm awfully sorry. I know I haven't behaved well to you, but one\ncan't force themselves.\"\n\n\"Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I did everything for\nyou? I planked out the money to keep you till your baby was born, I paid\nfor your doctor and everything, I paid for you to go to Brighton, and I'm\npaying for the keep of your baby, I'm paying for your clothes, I'm paying\nfor every stitch you've got on now.\"\n\n\"If you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what you've done for me in my\nface.\"\n\n\"Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. What d'you suppose I care if I'm a\ngentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn't waste my time with a\nvulgar slut like you. I don't care a damn if you like me or not. I'm sick\nof being made a blasted fool of. You're jolly well coming to Paris with me\non Saturday or you can take the consequences.\"\n\nHer cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice had the\nhard commonness which she concealed generally by a genteel enunciation.\n\n\"I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced yourself on me,\nI always hated it when you kissed me. I wouldn't let you touch me now not\nif I was starving.\"\n\nPhilip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles of his\nthroat refused to act. He gulped down something to drink and lit a\ncigarette. He was trembling in every part. He did not speak. He waited for\nher to move, but she sat in silence, staring at the white tablecloth. If\nthey had been alone he would have flung his arms round her and kissed her\npassionately; he fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he\npressed upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without\nspeaking, and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare at them\ncuriously. He called for the bill.\n\n\"Shall we go?\" he said then, in an even tone.\n\nShe did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves. She put\non her coat.\n\n\"When are you seeing Griffiths again?\"\n\n\"Tomorrow,\" she answered indifferently.\n\n\"You'd better talk it over with him.\"\n\nShe opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it. She took\nit out.\n\n\"Here's the bill for this dress,\" she said hesitatingly.\n\n\"What of it?\"\n\n\"I promised I'd give her the money tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Did you?\"\n\n\"Does that mean you won't pay for it after having told me I could get it?\"\n\n\"It does.\"\n\n\"I'll ask Harry,\" she said, flushing quickly.\n\n\"He'll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the moment, and he\npawned his microscope last week, because he was so broke.\"\n\n\"You needn't think you can frighten me by that. I'm quite capable of\nearning my own living.\"\n\n\"It's the best thing you can do. I don't propose to give you a farthing\nmore.\"\n\nShe thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby's keep, but did not\nsay anything. They left the restaurant, and in the street Philip asked\nher:\n\n\"Shall I call a cab for you? I'm going to take a little stroll.\"\n\n\"I haven't got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon.\"\n\n\"It won't hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I shall be in\nabout tea-time.\"\n\nHe took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a moment and\nsaw that she was standing helplessly where he had left her, looking at the\ntraffic. He went back and with a laugh pressed a coin into her hand.\n\n\"Here's two bob for you to get home with.\"\n\nBefore she could speak he hurried away.\n\n\n\nLXXVI\n\n\nNext day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether\nMildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the\nclub of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was\nthe vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one or\ntwo people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the\ntedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so,\nthat he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel.\nHe had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night\nbefore; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into Philip's\nroom to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip heard him go out\nearly. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him. Suddenly there was a\nlight tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet and opened it. Mildred\nstood on the threshold. She did not move.\n\n\"Come in,\" said Philip.\n\nHe closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin.\n\n\"Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, that's all right.\"\n\nShe gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid, ingratiating\nlook of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to\nreconcile himself with his master.\n\n\"I've been lunching with Harry,\" she said.\n\n\"Have you?\"\n\n\"If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I'll come.\"\n\nA quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation\nthat only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion.\n\n\"Because of the money?\" he asked.\n\n\"Partly,\" she answered simply. \"Harry can't do anything. He owes five\nweeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor's pressing him\nfor money. He'd pawn anything he could, but he's pawned everything\nalready. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on\nSaturday there's the book at my lodgings, and I can't get work in five\nminutes. It always means waiting some little time till there's a vacancy.\"\n\nShe said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were\nrecounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the\nnatural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew what she told him\nwell enough.\n\n\"You said partly,\" he observed at last.\n\n\"Well, Harry says you've been a brick to both of us. You've been a real\ngood friend to him, he says, and you've done for me what p'raps no other\nman would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And he said\nwhat you said about him, that he's fickle by nature, he's not like you,\nand I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won't last and you\nwill, he says so himself.\"\n\n\"D'you WANT to come away with me?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\nHe looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an\nexpression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have\nhis way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She\nlooked at him quickly, but did not speak.\n\n\"I've looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I\nthought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy...\"\n\nHe did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden, without\nwarning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting in the chair\nin which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back\nof it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the\nsagging in the middle, where the head had rested.\n\n\"I'm not lucky with women,\" thought Philip.\n\nHer thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry with\nsuch an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart was\ntorn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms\nround her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself\nto his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely\nknew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly.\n\n\"Are you awfully unhappy?\" he said at last.\n\n\"I wish I was dead,\" she moaned. \"I wish I'd died when the baby come.\"\n\nHer hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her head\nmore comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table\nand looked at her.\n\n\"It is awful, love, isn't it?\" he said. \"Fancy anyone wanting to be in\nlove.\"\n\nPresently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair,\nexhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. She\nhad the grotesque look of one of those painters' dummies used to hang\ndraperies on.\n\n\"I didn't know you loved him so much as all that,\" said Philip.\n\nHe understood Griffiths' love well enough, for he put himself in\nGriffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was\nable to think himself in Griffiths' body, and he kissed her with his lips,\nsmiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that\nsurprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this was\npassion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in his\nheart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he\nfelt strangely weak.\n\n\"I don't want to make you unhappy. You needn't come away with me if you\ndon't want to. I'll give you the money all the same.\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"No, I said I'd come, and I'll come.\"\n\n\"What's the good, if you're sick with love for him?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the word. I'm sick with love. I know it won't last, just as\nwell as he does, but just now...\"\n\nShe paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A strange\nidea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think\nit out.\n\n\"Why don't you go away with him?\"\n\n\"How can I? You know we haven't got the money.\"\n\n\"I'll give you the money.\"\n\n\"You?\"\n\nShe sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour came\ninto her cheeks.\n\n\"Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you'd come back\nto me.\"\n\nNow that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the\ntorture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at him with\nopen eyes.\n\n\"Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn't think of it.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him.\"\n\nHer objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart\nto refuse vehemently.\n\n\"I'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday. You\ncould easily do that. On Monday he's going home till he takes up his\nappointment at the North London.\"\n\n\"Oh, Philip, do you mean that?\" she cried, clasping her hands. \"If you\ncould only let us go--I would love you so much afterwards, I'd do anything\nfor you. I'm sure I shall get over it if you'll only do that. Would you\nreally give us the money?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\nShe was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she\nwas insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip's side, taking his\nhands.\n\n\"You are a brick, Philip. You're the best fellow I've ever known. Won't\nyou be angry with me afterwards?\"\n\nHe shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!\n\n\"May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don't mind? He\nwon't consent unless you promise it doesn't matter. Oh, you don't know how\nI love him! And afterwards I'll do anything you like. I'll come over to\nParis with you or anywhere on Monday.\"\n\nShe got up and put on her hat.\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I'm going to ask him if he'll take me.\"\n\n\"Already?\"\n\n\"D'you want me to stay? I'll stay if you like.\"\n\nShe sat down, but he gave a little laugh.\n\n\"No, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once. There's only one thing:\nI can't bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. Say\nI have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to\nkeep out of my way.\"\n\n\"All right.\" She sprang up and put on her gloves. \"I'll let you know what\nhe says.\"\n\n\"You'd better dine with me tonight.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nShe put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to\nhers she threw her arms round his neck.\n\n\"You are a darling, Philip.\"\n\nShe sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache\nand could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He knew that\nshe was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but the sudden\npassion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had\ncome from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he\nfelt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one\nanother. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and\nconfessed that in Mildred's place he would have done as Mildred did. What\nhurt him most was Griffiths' treachery; they had been such good friends,\nand Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might\nhave spared him.\n\nHe did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her\nby then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her\nthoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated\nher. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was\nstupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes\nto it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter\nselfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how\ninane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music\nhalls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he\nwas blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a\nthought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that\nwas his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he\npleased Mildred. They suited one another.\n\nPhilip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He\nknew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He\ndid not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining\nwith him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her\nthink he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill\nin saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so\nindefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to\nthem. At last she got up.\n\n\"I think I must be going off now,\" she said.\n\n\"I daresay you've got a lot to do,\" he answered.\n\nShe held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for\nher. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his\ncold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so\nfrigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered\nthis, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.\n\n\"You haven't forgotten what you promised?\" she said at last, as he held\nopen the door.\n\n\"What is that?\"\n\n\"About the money.\"\n\n\"How much d'you want?\"\n\nHe spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly\noffensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he\nwondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying\nout at him. He wanted to make her suffer.\n\n\"There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's all. Harry won't come, so\nwe shan't want money for that.\"\n\nPhilip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door\nhandle go. The door swung to.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"He says we couldn't, not on your money.\"\n\nA devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking\nwithin him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and\nMildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set\nhimself to persuade Griffiths through her.\n\n\"I don't see why not, if I'm willing,\" he said.\n\n\"That's what I told him.\"\n\n\"I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn't hesitate.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. He'd go at once if he had the\nmoney.\"\n\n\"If he's squeamish about it I'll give YOU the money.\"\n\n\"I said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it back as soon as we\ncould.\"\n\n\"It's rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you\naway for a week-end.\"\n\n\"It is rather, isn't it?\" she said, with a shameless little laugh. It sent\na cold shudder down Philip's spine.\n\n\"What are you going to do then?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing. He's going home tomorrow. He must.\"\n\nThat would be Philip's salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could\nget Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his\nsociety, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget\nthis infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a\nfiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how\nabominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more\nthey would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their\ndishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the\ntorture a horrible delight.\n\n\"It looks as if it were now or never.\"\n\n\"That's what I told him,\" she said.\n\nThere was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was\nbiting his nails in his nervousness.\n\n\"Where were you thinking of going?\"\n\n\"Oh, to Oxford. He was at the 'Varsity there, you know. He said he'd show\nme the colleges.\"\n\nPhilip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day,\nand she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of\nsights.\n\n\"And it looks as if you'd have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly\nthere just now.\"\n\n\"I've done all I could to persuade him.\"\n\n\"Why don't you have another try?\"\n\n\"Shall I say you want us to go?\"\n\n\"I don't think you must go as far as that,\" said Philip.\n\nShe paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced himself to\nlook at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he despised her, he loved her\nwith all his heart.\n\n\"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go and see if he can't arrange it. And\nthen, if he says yes, I'll come and fetch the money tomorrow. When shall\nyou be in?\"\n\n\"I'll come back here after luncheon and wait.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"I'll give you the money for your dress and your room now.\"\n\nHe went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress was six\nguineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby's keep for\na week. He gave her eight pounds ten.\n\n\"Thanks very much,\" she said.\n\nShe left him.\n\n\n\nLXXVII\n\n\nAfter lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went back to\nhis rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the\nstairs.\n\n\"Is Mr. Griffiths in?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out.\"\n\n\"Isn't he coming back?\"\n\n\"I don't think so, sir. He's taken his luggage.\"\n\nPhilip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began to read. It\nwas Burton's Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of the\nWestminster Public Library; and he read the first page, but could make no\nsense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time for\na ring at the bell. He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away\nalready, without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would be\ncoming presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he tried\ndesperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselves\nin his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by the\nagony he was enduring. He wished with all his heart that he had not made\nthe horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made it\nhe lacked the strength to go back on it, not on Mildred's account, but on\nhis own. There was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the\nthing he had determined. He discovered that the three pages he had read\nhad made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from\nthe beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again;\nand now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula\nin a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go out and keep away till\nmidnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house\nevery hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of their\ndisappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. But he\ncould not do that. Let them come and take the money, and he would know\nthen to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could\nnot read any more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back\nin his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred.\n\nThe landlady came in.\n\n\"Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?\"\n\n\"Show her in.\"\n\nPhilip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he\nwas feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her\nhands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her;\nshe would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted. He was\nashamed.\n\n\"Well, how about the little jaunt?\" he said gaily.\n\n\"We're going. Harry's outside. I told him you didn't want to see him, so\nhe's kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in just for\na minute to say good-bye to you.\"\n\n\"No, I won't see him,\" said Philip.\n\nHe could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she was\nthere he wanted her to go quickly.\n\n\"Look here, here's the fiver. I'd like you to go now.\"\n\nShe took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room.\n\n\"When are you coming back?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then.\"\n\nHe knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down\nwith jealousy and desire.\n\n\"Then I shall see you, shan't I?\"\n\nHe could not help the note of appeal in his voice.\n\n\"Of course. I'll let you know the moment I'm back.\"\n\nHe shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into a\nfour-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw himself\non his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming to his\neyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up\nhis body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were\nforced from him.\n\nHe got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixed\nhimself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better. Then\nhe caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the chimney-piece,\nand, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. He\nknew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him to\ndestroy them. Then he went out in search of someone to be with. The club\nwas empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; but\nLawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward's rooms: the maid who opened the\ndoor told him that he had gone down to Brighton for the week-end. Then\nPhilip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. He did not know\nwhat to do. He was distracted. And he thought of Griffiths and Mildred\ngoing to Oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. He went\nback to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been so\nwretched in them; he tried once more to read Burton's book, but, as he\nread, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was he\nwho had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered the\nmoney, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happen\nwhen he introduced Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion was\nenough to arouse the other's desire. By this time they had reached Oxford.\nThey would put up in one of the lodging-houses in John Street; Philip had\nnever been to Oxford, but Griffiths had talked to him about it so much\nthat he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the\nClarendon: Griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on\nthe spree. Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near\nCharing Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he\nfought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of Oscar Wilde's\npieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred and Griffiths would go\nto a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they were too\nstupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got a\nfierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which\nsuited them so exactly to one another. He watched the play with an\nabstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in each\ninterval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but his\ndrunkenness was savage and morose. When the play was over he had another\ndrink. He could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded\nthe pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. He tried\nnot to think of them. He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was seized\nwith a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself in\ngutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.\n\nHe walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rage\nand misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a painted harlot, who\nput her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words.\nHe walked on a few steps and then stopped. She would do as well as\nanother. He was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to her.\n\n\"I say,\" he began.\n\n\"Go to hell,\" she said.\n\nPhilip laughed.\n\n\"I merely wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of supping with me\ntonight.\"\n\nShe looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She saw he\nwas drunk.\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\nHe was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on\nMildred's lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had been in the\nhabit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked along that she\nlooked down at his limb.\n\n\"I've got a club-foot,\" he said. \"Have you any objection?\"\n\n\"You are a cure,\" she laughed.\n\nWhen he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a\nhammering that made him nearly scream. He took another whiskey and soda to\nsteady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day.\n\n\n\nLXXVIII\n\n\nAt last Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture was over. Looking\nout the trains he found that the latest by which Griffiths could reach\nhome that night left Oxford soon after one, and he supposed that Mildred\nwould take one which started a few minutes later to bring her to London.\nHis desire was to go and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like to be\nleft alone for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to\nsay she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next morning:\nhis spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred for Griffiths, but for\nMildred, notwithstanding all that had passed, only a heart-rending desire.\nHe was glad now that Hayward was not in London on Saturday afternoon when,\ndistraught, he went in search of human comfort: he could not have\nprevented himself from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been\nastonished at his weakness. He would despise him, and perhaps be shocked\nor disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making Mildred his\nmistress after she had given herself to another man. What did he care if\nit was shocking or disgusting? He was ready for any compromise, prepared\nfor more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his\ndesire.\n\nTowards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in\nwhich she lived, and he looked up at her window. It was dark. He did not\nventure to ask if she was back. He was confident in her promise. But there\nwas no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called,\nthe maid told him she had not arrived. He could not understand it. He knew\nthat Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he\nwas to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had no money. He turned over\nin his mind every possible thing that might have happened. He went again\nin the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening\nas calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. He\nmentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping\nagainst hope kept the appointment: though he waited for an hour she did\nnot come. On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent\na messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but\nin an hour the boy came back with Philip's letter unopened and the answer\nthat the lady had not returned from the country. Philip was beside\nhimself. The last deception was more than he could bear. He repeated to\nhimself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to\nGriffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what\nwas the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a joy it would\nbe to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat,\njust about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a\ndog. Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. He did not like\nwhiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed drunk on the\nTuesday and on the Wednesday night.\n\nOn Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed\nand sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters. A\ncurious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting\nof Griffiths.\n\n\nDear old man:\n\nI hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write. I hope\nyou're not awfully angry with me. I know I oughtn't to have gone away with\nMilly, but I simply couldn't help myself. She simply carried me off my\nfeet and I would have done anything to get her. When she told me you had\noffered us the money to go I simply couldn't resist. And now it's all over\nI'm awfully ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn't been such a fool. I wish\nyou'd write and say you're not angry with me, and I want you to let me\ncome and see you. I was awfully hurt at your telling Milly you didn't want\nto see me. Do write me a line, there's a good chap, and tell me you\nforgive me. It'll ease my conscience. I thought you wouldn't mind or you\nwouldn't have offered the money. But I know I oughtn't to have taken it.\nI came home on Monday and Milly wanted to stay a couple of days at Oxford\nby herself. She's going back to London on Wednesday, so by the time you\nreceive this letter you will have seen her and I hope everything will go\noff all right. Do write and say you forgive me. Please write at once.\n                                                       Yours ever,\n                                                                 Harry.\n\n\nPhilip tore up the letter furiously. He did not mean to answer it. He\ndespised Griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience with his\nprickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing if one chose, but\nit was contemptible to regret it afterwards. He thought the letter\ncowardly and hypocritical. He was disgusted at its sentimentality.\n\n\"It would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing,\" he muttered to\nhimself, \"and then say you were sorry, and that put it all right again.\"\n\nHe hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to do\nGriffiths a bad turn.\n\nBut at all events he knew that Mildred was in town. He dressed hurriedly,\nnot waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a cab to her rooms. The\ncab seemed to crawl. He was painfully anxious to see her, and\nunconsciously he uttered a prayer to the God he did not believe in to make\nher receive him kindly. He only wanted to forget. With beating heart he\nrang the bell. He forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to\nenfold her once more in his arms.\n\n\"Is Mrs. Miller in?\" he asked joyously.\n\n\"She's gone,\" the maid answered.\n\nHe looked at her blankly.\n\n\"She came about an hour ago and took away her things.\"\n\nFor a moment he did not know what to say.\n\n\"Did you give her my letter? Did she say where she was going?\"\n\nThen he understood that Mildred had deceived him again. She was not coming\nback to him. He made an effort to save his face.\n\n\"Oh, well, I daresay I shall hear from her. She may have sent a letter to\nanother address.\"\n\nHe turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. He might have known\nthat she would do this; she had never cared for him, she had made a fool\nof him from the beginning; she had no pity, she had no kindness, she had\nno charity. The only thing was to accept the inevitable. The pain he was\nsuffering was horrible, he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the\nthought came to him that it would be better to finish with the whole\nthing: he might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway\nline; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he rebelled\nagainst it. His reason told him that he would get over his unhappiness in\ntime; if he tried with all his might he could forget her; and it would be\ngrotesque to kill himself on account of a vulgar slut. He had only one\nlife, and it was madness to fling it away. He FELT that he would never\novercome his passion, but he KNEW that after all it was only a matter\nof time.\n\nHe would not stay in London. There everything reminded him of his\nunhappiness. He telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming to\nBlackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he could. He\nwanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he had endured so much\nsuffering. He wanted to breathe clean air. He was disgusted with himself.\nHe felt that he was a little mad.\n\n\nSince he was grown up Philip had been given the best spare room at the\nvicarage. It was a corner-room and in front of one window was an old tree\nwhich blocked the view, but from the other you saw, beyond the garden and\nthe vicarage field, broad meadows. Philip remembered the wall-paper from\nhis earliest years. On the walls were quaint water colours of the early\nVictorian period by a friend of the Vicar's youth. They had a faded charm.\nThe dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. There was an old\ntall-boy to put your clothes in. Philip gave a sigh of pleasure; he had\nnever realised that all those things meant anything to him at all. At the\nvicarage life went on as it had always done. No piece of furniture had\nbeen moved from one place to another; the Vicar ate the same things, said\nthe same things, went for the same walk every day; he had grown a little\nfatter, a little more silent, a little more narrow. He had become\naccustomed to living without his wife and missed her very little. He\nbickered still with Josiah Graves. Philip went to see the churchwarden. He\nwas a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere; he was\nautocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the altar. The shops\nhad still a pleasant quaintness; and Philip stood in front of that in\nwhich things useful to seamen were sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and\ntackle, and remembered that he had felt there in his childhood the thrill\nof the sea and the adventurous magic of the unknown.\n\nHe could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the postman in\ncase there might be a letter from Mildred sent on by his landlady in\nLondon; but he knew that there would be none. Now that he could think it\nout more calmly he understood that in trying to force Mildred to love him\nhe had been attempting the impossible. He did not know what it was that\npassed from a man to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them\na slave: it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was\nno more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion so\nvehement an attraction to one person rather than another. It was\nirresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude,\ninterest, had no power beside it. Because he had not attracted Mildred\nsexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her. The idea revolted\nhim; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of\nmen were full of dark places. Because Mildred was indifferent to him he\nhad thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body\nwith its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried\nout his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made\nher willing to risk everything to gratify them. He had never understood\nher adventure with Emil Miller: it had seemed so unlike her, and she had\nnever been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths\nhe knew that just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried\noff her feet by an ungovernable desire. He tried to think out what those\ntwo men had which so strangely attracted her. They both had a vulgar\nfacetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain\ncoarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality\nwhich was their most marked characteristic. She had a genteel refinement\nwhich shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions\nas indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she\nalways chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one: the\nbrutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and\nshe shuddered with voluptuous pain.\n\nOne thing Philip had made up his mind about. He would not go back to the\nlodgings in which he had suffered. He wrote to his landlady and gave her\nnotice. He wanted to have his own things about him. He determined to take\nunfurnished rooms: it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an\nurgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent\nnearly seven hundred pounds. He must make up for it now by the most rigid\neconomy. Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a\nfool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to\ncome again he would act in the same way. It amused him sometimes to\nconsider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his\nfeelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as\nstrong-minded, deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and\npraised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no\nmore than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective\ncolouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of\nhis will. It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as\nthough he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was\npowerless. He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because\nhe was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.\n\nHe considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for\nhimself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had\npassed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any\nof the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was\nswayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like\nthat great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He\nthought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was\npowerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. He acted\nas though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment\nand his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the\nfacts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who\nsaw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to\nalter one smallest particle of what occurred.\n\n\n\nLXXIX\n\n\nPhilip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in\norder to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of\nthe Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him;\nand at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world\nair. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that\nside of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great\nbarouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the\nWest of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. The houses in the\nstreet which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the\nwindows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one\nwhich announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an\naustere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a\nkitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did\nnot want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down\nat once. He asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him\nand cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do\nwithout that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she\nintimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to\nreceive his rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer's round\nthe corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who\nwould 'do' for him.\n\nPhilip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an\narm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and\nthe small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had offered\na fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in August, he\nhad no further use; and by spending another ten pounds Philip bought\nhimself whatever else was essential. He spent ten shillings on putting a\ncorn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on\nthe walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands\nAugustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet's\nOlympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while\nhe shaved. To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the\npractice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel\nAjuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with\nclenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on\nhis face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and\nthough Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his\nwork its associations made him look upon it with tolerance. He wondered\nwhat had happened to Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit\nof art by those who have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure,\nstarvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access\nof despair had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his\nSouthern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and\nnow, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to\npolitics and bull-fighting.\n\nPhilip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they\ncame, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras;\nand he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited\nthe Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could\nentertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that through\nhim Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked\nthat he had run across her a few days before.\n\n\"She was asking how you were.\"\n\nPhilip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of\nthe awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked\nat him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had\nso far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to\ndress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.\n\n\"I gather that all is over between you,\" he said.\n\n\"I've not seen her for months.\"\n\n\"She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with a lot of\nwhite ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty well.\"\n\nPhilip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an\ninterval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked\nsuddenly:\n\n\"Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?\"\n\n\"Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you.\"\n\n\"I've got half a mind to go and see her.\"\n\n\"She won't eat you.\"\n\nPhilip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first thought\nwas of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated\nhim so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he\nwas ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her\nabominably.\n\n\"If I'd only had the sense to stick to her!\" he said to himself,\nafterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last\npipe before going to bed.\n\nHe remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy\nsitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play,\nand the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He recollected her\nsolicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She\nhad loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than\nsensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was\na precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods. He\nmade up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suffered\nhorribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she\nwas incapable of malice. Should he write to her? No. He would break in on\nher suddenly and cast himself at her feet--he knew that when the time came\nhe would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how\nhe liked to think of it--and tell her that if she would take him back she\nmight rely on him for ever. He was cured of the hateful disease from which\nhe had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His\nimagination leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself rowing with\nher on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never\nforgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the\nPort of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on\nthe warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk:\nhe laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out\nlike a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of\ncharacter. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad\ndream.\n\nBut when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain\nto find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed\nhim. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would be abominable of him\nto force himself on her presence. The door was opened by a maid new since\nhe had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs.\nNesbit was in.\n\n\"Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?\" he said. \"I'll wait here.\"\n\nThe maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.\n\n\"Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Philip, with a slight smile.\n\nHe went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.\n\n\"Come in,\" said the well-known, cheerful voice.\n\nIt seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he\nentered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook hands with him as if\nthey had parted the day before. A man stood up.\n\n\"Mr. Carey--Mr. Kingsford.\"\n\nPhilip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took\nstock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name, but he\nseemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home.\nHe was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly\nplastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men\nget when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the\nbones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of\nmore than average height, and broad-shouldered.\n\n\"I was wondering what had become of you,\" said Norah, in her sprightly\nmanner. \"I met Mr. Lawson the other day--did he tell you?--and I informed\nhim that it was really high time you came to see me again.\"\n\nPhilip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he\nadmired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself\nfelt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about to put sugar\nin it when he stopped her.\n\n\"How stupid of me!\" she cried. \"I forgot.\"\n\nHe did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never took\nsugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance\nwas affected.\n\nThe conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he\nbegan to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice of\nhim. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly\ndogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something\namusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated\nPhilip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to\nstay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah. In the old days\nthey had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had\nlaughed at them together. Philip tried to bring back the conversation to\nmatters which only he and Norah knew about, but each time the journalist\nbroke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip\nwas forced to be silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must\nsee he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon\nhim as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. At\nlast, however, the clock struck six, and Kingsford got up.\n\n\"I must go,\" he said.\n\nNorah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She shut\nthe door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. Philip\nwondered what they were talking about.\n\n\"Who is Mr. Kingsford?\" he asked cheerfully, when she returned.\n\n\"Oh, he's the editor of one of Harmsworth's Magazines. He's been taking a\ngood deal of my work lately.\"\n\n\"I thought he was never going.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you.\" She curled\nherself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size\nmade possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume the\nattitude which had always amused him.\n\n\"You look just like a cat.\"\n\nShe gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes.\n\n\"I really ought to break myself of the habit. It's absurd to behave like\na child when you're my age, but I'm comfortable with my legs under me.\"\n\n\"It's awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again,\" said Philip\nhappily. \"You don't know how I've missed it.\"\n\n\"Why on earth didn't you come before?\" she asked gaily.\n\n\"I was afraid to,\" he said, reddening.\n\nShe gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a charming smile.\n\n\"You needn't have been.\"\n\nHe hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly.\n\n\"D'you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully badly--I'm\ndreadfully ashamed of myself.\"\n\nShe looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing his head; he\nseemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the\noutrageousness. She did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly.\n\n\"Can you ever forgive me?\"\n\nThen impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that his\nunhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. He told her\nof all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of\nthe meeting with Griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense\ndeception. He told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her\nlove, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been\nhappy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His\nvoice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so ashamed of what he was\nsaying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground. His face was\ndistorted with pain, and yet he felt it a strange relief to speak. At last\nhe finished. He flung himself back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. He\nhad concealed nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to\nmake himself more despicable than he had really been. He was surprised\nthat she did not speak, and at last he raised his eyes. She was not\nlooking at him. Her face was quite white, and she seemed to be lost in\nthought.\n\n\"Haven't you got anything to say to me?\"\n\nShe started and reddened.\n\n\"I'm afraid you've had a rotten time,\" she said. \"I'm dreadfully sorry.\"\n\nShe seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited. At length\nshe seemed to force herself to speak.\n\n\"I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Kingsford.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you tell me at once?\" he cried. \"You needn't have allowed me\nto humiliate myself before you.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, I couldn't stop you.... I met him soon after you\"--she seemed\nto search for an expression that should not wound him--\"told me your\nfriend had come back. I was very wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind\nto me. He knew someone had made me suffer, of course he doesn't know it\nwas you, and I don't know what I should have done without him. And\nsuddenly I felt I couldn't go on working, working, working; I was so\ntired, I felt so ill. I told him about my husband. He offered to give me\nthe money to get my divorce if I would marry him as soon as I could. He\nhad a very good job, and it wouldn't be necessary for me to do anything\nunless I wanted to. He was so fond of me and so anxious to take care of\nme. I was awfully touched. And now I'm very, very fond of him.\"\n\n\"Have you got your divorce then?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"I've got the decree nisi. It'll be made absolute in July, and then we are\ngoing to be married at once.\"\n\nFor some time Philip did not say anything.\n\n\"I wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself,\" he muttered at length.\n\nHe was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked at him\ncuriously.\n\n\"You were never really in love with me,\" she said.\n\n\"It's not very pleasant being in love.\"\n\nBut he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and\nholding out his hand, he said:\n\n\"I hope you'll be very happy. After all, it's the best thing that could\nhave happened to you.\"\n\nShe looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it.\n\n\"You'll come and see me again, won't you?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" he said, shaking his head. \"It would make me too envious to see you\nhappy.\"\n\nHe walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right when she\nsaid he had never loved her. He was disappointed, irritated even, but his\nvanity was more affected than his heart. He knew that himself. And\npresently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical\njoke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very\ncomfortable to have the gift of being amused at one's own absurdity.\n\n\n\nLXXX\n\n\nFor the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were new to him.\nThe unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical School nearly two years\nbefore had thinned out: some had left the hospital, finding the\nexaminations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been\ntaken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in London,\nand some had drifted away to other callings. One youth whom Philip knew\nhad devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales\nand pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn goods\nbought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at the hospital\nwhen someone pointed out his name in police-court proceedings. There had\nbeen a remand, then assurances on the part of a harassed father, and the\nyoung man had gone out to bear the White Man's Burden overseas. The\nimagination of another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all,\nfell to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his time\namong racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was become a\nbook-maker's clerk. Philip had seen him once in a bar near Piccadilly\nCircus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with a broad, flat brim. A\nthird, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who had achieved success at\nthe smoking concerts of the Medical School by his imitation of notorious\ncomedians, had abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy.\nStill another, and he interested Philip because his uncouth manner and\ninterjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any deep\nemotion, had felt himself stifle among the houses of London. He grew\nhaggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew not he possessed struggled\nlike a sparrow held in the hand, with little frightened gasps and a quick\npalpitation of the heart: he yearned for the broad skies and the open,\ndesolate places among which his childhood had been spent; and he walked\noff one day, without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another;\nand the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine\nand was working on a farm.\n\nPhilip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. On certain\nmornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to earn\na little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the\nstethoscope. He learned dispensing. He was taking the examination in\nMateria Medica in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs,\nconcocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. He seized avidly\nupon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human interest.\n\nHe saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of\ncutting him dead, avoided him. Philip had felt a certain\nself-consciousness with Griffiths' friends, some of whom were now friends\nof his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with Griffiths and\nsurmised they were aware of the reason. One of them, a very tall fellow,\nwith a small head and a languid air, a youth called Ramsden, who was one\nof Griffiths' most faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his\nmanner of talking and his gestures, told Philip that Griffiths was very\nmuch hurt because Philip had not answered his letter. He wanted to be\nreconciled with him.\n\n\"Has he asked you to give me the message?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, no. I'm saying this entirely on my own,\" said Ramsden. \"He's awfully\nsorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a perfect brick\nto him. I know he'd be glad to make it up. He doesn't come to the hospital\nbecause he's afraid of meeting you, and he thinks you'd cut him.\"\n\n\"I should.\"\n\n\"It makes him feel rather wretched, you know.\"\n\n\"I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal of\nfortitude,\" said Philip.\n\n\"He'll do anything he can to make it up.\"\n\n\"How childish and hysterical! Why should he care? I'm a very insignificant\nperson, and he can do very well without my company. I'm not interested in\nhim any more.\"\n\nRamsden thought Philip hard and cold. He paused for a moment or two,\nlooking about him in a perplexed way.\n\n\"Harry wishes to God he'd never had anything to do with the woman.\"\n\n\"Does he?\" asked Philip.\n\nHe spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. No one could\nhave guessed how violently his heart was beating. He waited impatiently\nfor Ramsden to go on.\n\n\"I suppose you've quite got over it now, haven't you?\"\n\n\"I?\" said Philip. \"Quite.\"\n\nLittle by little he discovered the history of Mildred's relations with\nGriffiths. He listened with a smile on his lips, feigning an equanimity\nwhich quite deceived the dull-witted boy who talked to him. The week-end\nshe spent with Griffiths at Oxford inflamed rather than extinguished her\nsudden passion; and when Griffiths went home, with a feeling that was\nunexpected in her she determined to stay in Oxford by herself for a couple\nof days, because she had been so happy in it. She felt that nothing could\ninduce her to go back to Philip. He revolted her. Griffiths was taken\naback at the fire he had aroused, for he had found his two days with her\nin the country somewhat tedious; and he had no desire to turn an amusing\nepisode into a tiresome affair. She made him promise to write to her, and,\nbeing an honest, decent fellow, with natural politeness and a desire to\nmake himself pleasant to everybody, when he got home he wrote her a long\nand charming letter. She answered it with reams of passion, clumsy, for\nshe had no gift of expression, ill-written, and vulgar; the letter bored\nhim, and when it was followed next day by another, and the day after by a\nthird, he began to think her love no longer flattering but alarming. He\ndid not answer; and she bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he\nwere ill and had received her letters; she said his silence made her\ndreadfully anxious. He was forced to write, but he sought to make his\nreply as casual as was possible without being offensive: he begged her not\nto wire, since it was difficult to explain telegrams to his mother, an\nold-fashioned person for whom a telegram was still an event to excite\ntremor. She answered by return of post that she must see him and announced\nher intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which Philip had\ngiven her as a wedding-present and could raise eight pounds on that) in\norder to come up and stay at the market town four miles from which was the\nvillage in which his father practised. This frightened Griffiths; and he,\nthis time, made use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she must do\nnothing of the kind. He promised to let her know the moment he came up to\nLondon, and, when he did, found that she had already been asking for him\nat the hospital at which he had an appointment. He did not like this, and,\non seeing her, told Mildred that she was not to come there on any pretext;\nand now, after an absence of three weeks, he found that she bored him\nquite decidedly; he wondered why he had ever troubled about her, and made\nup his mind to break with her as soon as he could. He was a person who\ndreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give pain; but at the same time he\nhad other things to do, and he was quite determined not to let Mildred\nbother him. When he met her he was pleasant, cheerful, amusing,\naffectionate; he invented convincing excuses for the interval since last\nhe had seen her; but he did everything he could to avoid her. When she\nforced him to make appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last\nmoment to put himself off; and his landlady (the first three months of his\nappointment he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was out when\nMildred called. She would waylay him in the street and, knowing she had\nbeen waiting about for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of\nhours, he would give her a few charming, friendly words and bolt off with\nthe excuse that he had a business engagement. He grew very skilful in\nslipping out of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went back to his\nlodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and\nsuspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in Ramsden's rooms; next\nday the landlady told him that Mildred had sat crying on the doorsteps for\nhours, and she had been obliged to tell her at last that if she did not go\naway she would send for a policeman.\n\n\"I tell you, my boy,\" said Ramsden, \"you're jolly well out of it. Harry\nsays that if he'd suspected for half a second she was going to make such\na blooming nuisance of herself he'd have seen himself damned before he had\nanything to do with her.\"\n\nPhilip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long hours of\nthe night. He saw her face as she looked up dully at the landlady who sent\nher away.\n\n\"I wonder what she's doing now.\"\n\n\"Oh, she's got a job somewhere, thank God. That keeps her busy all day.\"\n\nThe last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer session, was\nthat Griffiths, urbanity had given way at length under the exasperation of\nthe constant persecution. He had told Mildred that he was sick of being\npestered, and she had better take herself off and not bother him again.\n\n\"It was the only thing he could do,\" said Ramsden. \"It was getting a bit\ntoo thick.\"\n\n\"Is it all over then?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, he hasn't seen her for ten days. You know, Harry's wonderful at\ndropping people. This is about the toughest nut he's ever had to crack,\nbut he's cracked it all right.\"\n\nThen Philip heard nothing more of her at all. She vanished into the vast\nanonymous mass of the population of London.\n\n\n\nLXXXI\n\n\nAt the beginning of the winter session Philip became an out-patients'\nclerk. There were three assistant-physicians who took out-patients, two\ndays a week each, and Philip put his name down for Dr. Tyrell. He was\npopular with the students, and there was some competition to be his clerk.\nDr. Tyrell was a tall, thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head,\nred hair cut short, and prominent blue eyes: his face was bright scarlet.\nHe talked well in a pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and treated\nthe world lightly. He was a successful man, with a large consulting\npractice and a knighthood in prospect. From commerce with students and\npoor people he had the patronising air, and from dealing always with the\nsick he had the healthy man's jovial condescension, which some consultants\nachieve as the professional manner. He made the patient feel like a boy\nconfronted by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd piece of\nnaughtiness which amused rather than irritated.\n\nThe student was supposed to attend in the out-patients' room every day,\nsee cases, and pick up what information he could; but on the days on which\nhe clerked his duties were a little more definite. At that time the\nout-patients' department at St. Luke's consisted of three rooms, leading\ninto one another, and a large, dark waiting-room with massive pillars of\nmasonry and long benches. Here the patients waited after having been given\ntheir 'letters' at mid-day; and the long rows of them, bottles and\ngallipots in hand, some tattered and dirty, others decent enough, sitting\nin the dimness, men and women of all ages, children, gave one an\nimpression which was weird and horrible. They suggested the grim drawings\nof Daumier. All the rooms were painted alike, in salmon-colour with a high\ndado of maroon; and there was in them an odour of disinfectants, mingling\nas the afternoon wore on with the crude stench of humanity. The first room\nwas the largest and in the middle of it were a table and an office chair\nfor the physician; on each side of this were two smaller tables, a little\nlower: at one of these sat the house-physician and at the other the clerk\nwho took the 'book' for the day. This was a large volume in which were\nwritten down the name, age, sex, profession, of the patient and the\ndiagnosis of his disease.\n\nAt half past one the house-physician came in, rang the bell, and told the\nporter to send in the old patients. There were always a good many of\nthese, and it was necessary to get through as many of them as possible\nbefore Dr. Tyrell came at two. The H.P. with whom Philip came in contact\nwas a dapper little man, excessively conscious of his importance: he\ntreated the clerks with condescension and patently resented the\nfamiliarity of older students who had been his contemporaries and did not\nuse him with the respect he felt his present position demanded. He set\nabout the cases. A clerk helped him. The patients streamed in. The men\ncame first. Chronic bronchitis, \"a nasty 'acking cough,\" was what they\nchiefly suffered from; one went to the H.P. and the other to the clerk,\nhanding in their letters: if they were going on well the words Rep 14\nwere written on them, and they went to the dispensary with their bottles\nor gallipots in order to have medicine given them for fourteen days more.\nSome old stagers held back so that they might be seen by the physician\nhimself, but they seldom succeeded in this; and only three or four, whose\ncondition seemed to demand his attention, were kept.\n\nDr. Tyrell came in with quick movements and a breezy manner. He reminded\none slightly of a clown leaping into the arena of a circus with the cry:\nHere we are again. His air seemed to indicate: What's all this nonsense\nabout being ill? I'll soon put that right. He took his seat, asked if\nthere were any old patients for him to see, rapidly passed them in review,\nlooking at them with shrewd eyes as he discussed their symptoms, cracked\na joke (at which all the clerks laughed heartily) with the H.P., who\nlaughed heartily too but with an air as if he thought it was rather\nimpudent for the clerks to laugh, remarked that it was a fine day or a hot\none, and rang the bell for the porter to show in the new patients.\n\nThey came in one by one and walked up to the table at which sat Dr.\nTyrell. They were old men and young men and middle-aged men, mostly of the\nlabouring class, dock labourers, draymen, factory hands, barmen; but some,\nneatly dressed, were of a station which was obviously superior,\nshop-assistants, clerks, and the like. Dr. Tyrell looked at these with\nsuspicion. Sometimes they put on shabby clothes in order to pretend they\nwere poor; but he had a keen eye to prevent what he regarded as fraud and\nsometimes refused to see people who, he thought, could well pay for\nmedical attendance. Women were the worst offenders and they managed the\nthing more clumsily. They would wear a cloak and a skirt which were almost\nin rags, and neglect to take the rings off their fingers.\n\n\"If you can afford to wear jewellery you can afford a doctor. A hospital\nis a charitable institution,\" said Dr. Tyrell.\n\nHe handed back the letter and called for the next case.\n\n\"But I've got my letter.\"\n\n\"I don't care a hang about your letter; you get out. You've got no\nbusiness to come and steal the time which is wanted by the really poor.\"\n\nThe patient retired sulkily, with an angry scowl.\n\n\"She'll probably write a letter to the papers on the gross mismanagement\nof the London hospitals,\" said Dr. Tyrell, with a smile, as he took the\nnext paper and gave the patient one of his shrewd glances.\n\nMost of them were under the impression that the hospital was an\ninstitution of the state, for which they paid out of the rates, and took\nthe attendance they received as a right they could claim. They imagined\nthe physician who gave them his time was heavily paid.\n\nDr. Tyrell gave each of his clerks a case to examine. The clerk took the\npatient into one of the inner rooms; they were smaller, and each had a\ncouch in it covered with black horse-hair: he asked his patient a variety\nof questions, examined his lungs, his heart, and his liver, made notes of\nfact on the hospital letter, formed in his own mind some idea of the\ndiagnosis, and then waited for Dr. Tyrell to come in. This he did,\nfollowed by a small crowd of students, when he had finished the men, and\nthe clerk read out what he had learned. The physician asked him one or two\nquestions, and examined the patient himself. If there was anything\ninteresting to hear students applied their stethoscope: you would see a\nman with two or three to the chest, and two perhaps to his back, while\nothers waited impatiently to listen. The patient stood among them a little\nembarrassed, but not altogether displeased to find himself the centre of\nattention: he listened confusedly while Dr. Tyrell discoursed glibly on\nthe case. Two or three students listened again to recognise the murmur or\nthe crepitation which the physician described, and then the man was told\nto put on his clothes.\n\nWhen the various cases had been examined Dr. Tyrell went back into the\nlarge room and sat down again at his desk. He asked any student who\nhappened to be standing near him what he would prescribe for a patient he\nhad just seen. The student mentioned one or two drugs.\n\n\"Would you?\" said Dr. Tyrell. \"Well, that's original at all events. I\ndon't think we'll be rash.\"\n\nThis always made the students laugh, and with a twinkle of amusement at\nhis own bright humour the physician prescribed some other drug than that\nwhich the student had suggested. When there were two cases of exactly the\nsame sort and the student proposed the treatment which the physician had\nordered for the first, Dr. Tyrell exercised considerable ingenuity in\nthinking of something else. Sometimes, knowing that in the dispensary they\nwere worked off their legs and preferred to give the medicines which they\nhad all ready, the good hospital mixtures which had been found by the\nexperience of years to answer their purpose so well, he amused himself by\nwriting an elaborate prescription.\n\n\"We'll give the dispenser something to do. If we go on prescribing mist:\nalb: he'll lose his cunning.\"\n\nThe students laughed, and the doctor gave them a circular glance of\nenjoyment in his joke. Then he touched the bell and, when the porter poked\nhis head in, said:\n\n\"Old women, please.\"\n\nHe leaned back in his chair, chatting with the H.P. while the porter\nherded along the old patients. They came in, strings of anaemic girls,\nwith large fringes and pallid lips, who could not digest their bad,\ninsufficient food; old ladies, fat and thin, aged prematurely by frequent\nconfinements, with winter coughs; women with this, that, and the other,\nthe matter with them. Dr. Tyrell and his house-physician got through them\nquickly. Time was getting on, and the air in the small room was growing\nmore sickly. The physician looked at his watch.\n\n\"Are there many new women today?\" he asked.\n\n\"A good few, I think,\" said the H.P.\n\n\"We'd better have them in. You can go on with the old ones.\"\n\nThey entered. With the men the most common ailments were due to the\nexcessive use of alcohol, but with the women they were due to defective\nnourishment. By about six o'clock they were finished. Philip, exhausted by\nstanding all the time, by the bad air, and by the attention he had given,\nstrolled over with his fellow-clerks to the Medical School to have tea. He\nfound the work of absorbing interest. There was humanity there in the\nrough, the materials the artist worked on; and Philip felt a curious\nthrill when it occurred to him that he was in the position of the artist\nand the patients were like clay in his hands. He remembered with an amused\nshrug of the shoulders his life in Paris, absorbed in colour, tone,\nvalues, Heaven knows what, with the aim of producing beautiful things: the\ndirectness of contact with men and women gave a thrill of power which he\nhad never known. He found an endless excitement in looking at their faces\nand hearing them speak; they came in each with his peculiarity, some\nshuffling uncouthly, some with a little trip, others with heavy, slow\ntread, some shyly. Often you could guess their trades by the look of them.\nYou learnt in what way to put your questions so that they should be\nunderstood, you discovered on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what\ninquiries you could extort the truth notwithstanding. You saw the\ndifferent way people took the same things. The diagnosis of dangerous\nillness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by another with\ndumb despair. Philip found that he was less shy with these people than he\nhad ever been with others; he felt not exactly sympathy, for sympathy\nsuggests condescension; but he felt at home with them. He found that he\nwas able to put them at their ease, and, when he had been given a case to\nfind out what he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient\ndelivered himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" he thought to himself, with a smile, \"perhaps I'm cut out to be\na doctor. It would be rather a lark if I'd hit upon the one thing I'm fit\nfor.\"\n\nIt seemed to Philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic interest\nof those afternoons. To the others men and women were only cases, good if\nthey were complicated, tiresome if obvious; they heard murmurs and were\nastonished at abnormal livers; an unexpected sound in the lungs gave them\nsomething to talk about. But to Philip there was much more. He found an\ninterest in just looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their\nhands, in the look of their eyes and the length of their noses. You saw in\nthat room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of custom was\ntorn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw. Sometimes you saw an\nuntaught stoicism which was profoundly moving. Once Philip saw a man,\nrough and illiterate, told his case was hopeless; and, self-controlled\nhimself, he wondered at the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to\nkeep a stiff upper-lip before strangers. But was it possible for him to be\nbrave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or would he then\nsurrender to despair? Sometimes there was tragedy. Once a young woman\nbrought her sister to be examined, a girl of eighteen, with delicate\nfeatures and large blue eyes, fair hair that sparkled with gold when a ray\nof autumn sunshine touched it for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty.\nThe students' eyes went to her with little smiles. They did not often see\na pretty girl in these dingy rooms. The elder woman gave the family\nhistory, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and a sister,\nthese two were the only ones left. The girl had been coughing lately and\nlosing weight. She took off her blouse and the skin of her neck was like\nmilk. Dr. Tyrell examined her quietly, with his usual rapid method; he\ntold two or three of his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he\nindicated with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress. The sister\nwas standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice, so that\nthe girl should not hear. Her voice trembled with fear.\n\n\"She hasn't got it, doctor, has she?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it.\"\n\n\"She was the last one. When she goes I shan't have anybody.\"\n\nShe began to cry, while the doctor looked at her gravely; he thought she\ntoo had the type; she would not make old bones either. The girl turned\nround and saw her sister's tears. She understood what they meant. The\ncolour fled from her lovely face and tears fell down her cheeks. The two\nstood for a minute or two, crying silently, and then the older, forgetting\nthe indifferent crowd that watched them, went up to her, took her in her\narms, and rocked her gently to and fro as if she were a baby.\n\nWhen they were gone a student asked:\n\n\"How long d'you think she'll last, sir?\"\n\nDr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"Her brother and sister died within three months of the first symptoms.\nShe'll do the same. If they were rich one might do something. You can't\ntell these people to go to St. Moritz. Nothing can be done for them.\"\n\nOnce a man who was strong and in all the power of his manhood came because\na persistent aching troubled him and his club-doctor did not seem to do\nhim any good; and the verdict for him too was death, not the inevitable\ndeath that horrified and yet was tolerable because science was helpless\nbefore it, but the death which was inevitable because the man was a little\nwheel in the great machine of a complex civilisation, and had as little\npower of changing the circumstances as an automaton. Complete rest was his\nonly chance. The physician did not ask impossibilities.\n\n\"You ought to get some very much lighter job.\"\n\n\"There ain't no light jobs in my business.\"\n\n\"Well, if you go on like this you'll kill yourself. You're very ill.\"\n\n\"D'you mean to say I'm going to die?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't like to say that, but you're certainly unfit for hard work.\"\n\n\"If I don't work who's to keep the wife and the kids?\"\n\nDr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders. The dilemma had been presented to him\na hundred times. Time was pressing and there were many patients to be\nseen.\n\n\"Well, I'll give you some medicine and you can come back in a week and\ntell me how you're getting on.\"\n\nThe man took his letter with the useless prescription written upon it and\nwalked out. The doctor might say what he liked. He did not feel so bad\nthat he could not go on working. He had a good job and he could not afford\nto throw it away.\n\n\"I give him a year,\" said Dr. Tyrell.\n\nSometimes there was comedy. Now and then came a flash of cockney humour,\nnow and then some old lady, a character such as Charles Dickens might have\ndrawn, would amuse them by her garrulous oddities. Once a woman came who\nwas a member of the ballet at a famous music-hall. She looked fifty, but\ngave her age as twenty-eight. She was outrageously painted and ogled the\nstudents impudently with large black eyes; her smiles were grossly\nalluring. She had abundant self-confidence and treated Dr. Tyrell, vastly\namused, with the easy familiarity with which she might have used an\nintoxicated admirer. She had chronic bronchitis, and told him it hindered\nher in the exercise of her profession.\n\n\"I don't know why I should 'ave such a thing, upon my word I don't. I've\nnever 'ad a day's illness in my life. You've only got to look at me to\nknow that.\"\n\nShe rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long sweep of her painted\neyelashes, and flashed her yellow teeth at them. She spoke with a cockney\naccent, but with an affectation of refinement which made every word a\nfeast of fun.\n\n\"It's what they call a winter cough,\" answered Dr. Tyrell gravely. \"A\ngreat many middle-aged women have it.\"\n\n\"Well, I never! That is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one ever called\nme middle-aged before.\"\n\nShe opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side, looking at\nhim with indescribable archness.\n\n\"That is the disadvantage of our profession,\" said he. \"It forces us\nsometimes to be ungallant.\"\n\nShe took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile.\n\n\"You will come and see me dance, dearie, won't you?\"\n\n\"I will indeed.\"\n\nHe rang the bell for the next case.\n\n\"I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me.\"\n\nBut on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of comedy.\nThere was no describing it. It was manifold and various; there were tears\nand laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting and\nindifferent; it was as you saw it: it was tumultuous and passionate; it\nwas grave; it was sad and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and\ncomplex; joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for their\nchildren, and of men for women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with\nleaden feet, punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and\nwretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable\nprice; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning of life, filling\nsome poor girl with terror and shame, was diagnosed there. There was\nneither good nor bad there. There were just facts. It was life.\n\n\n\nLXXXII\n\n\nTowards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close his three\nmonths as clerk in the out-patients' department, he received a letter from\nLawson, who was in Paris.\n\nDear Philip,\n\nCronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living at 43\nHyde Street, Soho. I don't know where it is, but I daresay you will be\nable to find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit. He is very down on\nhis luck. He will tell you what he is doing. Things are going on here very\nmuch as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here. Clutton\nis back, but he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled with\neverybody. As far as I can make out he hasn't got a cent, he lives in a\nlittle studio right away beyond the Jardin des Plantes, but he won't let\nanybody see his work. He doesn't show anywhere, so one doesn't know what\nhe is doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off his\nhead. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showing\nMrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in popper's\nbusiness. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I'm\ntrying to work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me? I don't\nwant to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don't want to be such\nan ass as to ask L150 if they're quite willing to give L300.\n\n                                              Yours ever,\n                                                   Frederick Lawson.\n\n\nPhilip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. It\nwas written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope\nwas dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post.\n\nDear Carey,\n\nOf course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had some part in\nrescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelessly\nimmersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am a stranger in a strange city\nand I am buffeted by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of\nParis. I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a\nmagnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of Monsieur\nPurgon's profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening\nbetween seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean\nStreet.\n\n                                          Your sincere\n                                                  J. Cronshaw.\n\n\nPhilip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant, consisting of\none small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be its\nonly customer. He was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts,\nwearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him\nwithout, with his old bowler on his head.\n\n\"I eat here because I can be alone,\" he said. \"They are not doing well;\nthe only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of\na job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. But the\nruin of their fortunes is my advantage.\"\n\nCronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. It was nearly three years\nsince they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change in his\nappearance. He had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up,\nyellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hung\nabout him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar,\nthree or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of his\nappearance. His hands trembled continually. Philip remembered the\nhandwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard\nletters. Cronshaw was evidently very ill.\n\n\"I eat little these days,\" he said. \"I'm very sick in the morning. I'm\njust having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit of\ncheese.\"\n\nPhilip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeing\nit, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of\ncommon sense.\n\n\"You have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me to drink\nabsinthe.\"\n\n\"You've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Evidently.\"\n\nHe looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power of making\nhim feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out that what he was\nthinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with the\nobvious what more is there to say? Philip changed the topic.\n\n\"When are you going back to Paris?\"\n\n\"I'm not going back to Paris. I'm going to die.\"\n\nThe very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He thought\nof half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. He knew that\nCronshaw was a dying man.\n\n\"Are you going to settle in London then?\" he asked lamely.\n\n\"What is London to me? I am a fish out of water. I walk through the\ncrowded streets, men jostle me, and I seem to walk in a dead city. I felt\nthat I couldn't die in Paris. I wanted to die among my own people. I don't\nknow what hidden instinct drew me back at the last.\"\n\nPhilip knew of the woman Cronshaw had lived with and the two\ndraggle-tailed children, but Cronshaw had never mentioned them to him, and\nhe did not like to speak of them. He wondered what had happened to them.\n\n\"I don't know why you talk of dying,\" he said.\n\n\"I had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then it was a\nmiracle that I came through. It appears I'm extremely liable to it, and\nanother bout will kill me.\"\n\n\"Oh, what nonsense! You're not so bad as all that. You've only got to take\nprecautions. Why don't you give up drinking?\"\n\n\"Because I don't choose. It doesn't matter what a man does if he's ready\nto take the consequences. Well, I'm ready to take the consequences. You\ntalk glibly of giving up drinking, but it's the only thing I've got left\nnow. What do you think life would be to me without it? Can you understand\nthe happiness I get out of my absinthe? I yearn for it; and when I drink\nit I savour every drop, and afterwards I feel my soul swimming in\nineffable happiness. It disgusts you. You are a puritan and in your heart\nyou despise sensual pleasures. Sensual pleasures are the most violent and\nthe most exquisite. I am a man blessed with vivid senses, and I have\nindulged them with all my soul. I have to pay the penalty now, and I am\nready to pay.\"\n\nPhilip looked at him for a while steadily.\n\n\"Aren't you afraid?\"\n\nFor a moment Cronshaw did not answer. He seemed to consider his reply.\n\n\"Sometimes, when I'm alone.\" He looked at Philip. \"You think that's a\ncondemnation? You're wrong. I'm not afraid of my fear. It's folly, the\nChristian argument that you should live always in view of your death. The\nonly way to live is to forget that you're going to die. Death is\nunimportant. The fear of it should never influence a single action of the\nwise man. I know that I shall die struggling for breath, and I know that\nI shall be horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myself\nfrom regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; but\nI disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still\nmy soul in my hands, and I regret nothing.\"\n\n\"D'you remember that Persian carpet you gave me?\" asked Philip.\n\nCronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days.\n\n\"I told you that it would give you an answer to your question when you\nasked me what was the meaning of life. Well, have you discovered the\nanswer?\"\n\n\"No,\" smiled Philip. \"Won't you tell it me?\"\n\n\"No, no, I can't do that. The answer is meaningless unless you discover it\nfor yourself.\"\n\n\n\nLXXXIII\n\n\nCronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging him to do\nthis for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take the\nnecessary steps. He had always answered their exhortations by telling them\nthat the love of poetry was dead in England. You brought out a book which\nhad cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or three\ncontemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty\ncopies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had long\nsince worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion like all else.\nBut one of his friends had taken the matter into his own hands. This was\na man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met once or twice\nwith Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter. He had a considerable\nreputation in England as a critic and was the accredited exponent in this\ncountry of modern French literature. He had lived a good deal in France\namong the men who made the Mercure de France the liveliest review of the\nday, and by the simple process of expressing in English their point of\nview he had acquired in England a reputation for originality. Philip had\nread some of his articles. He had formed a style for himself by a close\nimitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefully\nbalanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing an\nappearance of individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give\nhim all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume of\nreasonable size. He promised to use his influence with publishers.\nCronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he had found it more\ndifficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keep\nhimself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and\nthe other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while to\npublish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested. He wrote impressing upon\nUpjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now\nthat he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a published book,\nand at the back of his mind was the feeling that he had produced great\npoetry. He expected to burst upon the world like a new star. There was\nsomething fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all his\nlife and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the world\nparting company, he had no further use for them.\n\nHis decision to come to England was caused directly by an announcement\nfrom Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. By\na miracle of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in\nadvance of royalties.\n\n\"In advance of royalties, mind you,\" said Cronshaw to Philip. \"Milton only\ngot ten pounds down.\"\n\nUpjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask\nhis friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat the\nmatter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with\nthe thought of the stir he would make.\n\nOne day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at\nwhich Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear.\nPhilip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himself\nsomething to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw had\nfirst written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It\nwas a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had\nbeen broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper;\nthe doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops\non the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged children\nplayed in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar\ntune. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw's house (there was a shop of\ncheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly\nFrenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.\n\n\"Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I\ndon't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go up and see.\"\n\nThe staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in\nthe house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the\nfirst floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were\nthree doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again;\nthere was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He\nknocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It\nopened. The room was dark.\n\n\"Who's that?\"\n\nHe recognised Cronshaw's voice.\n\n\"Carey. Can I come in?\"\n\nHe received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink\nwas overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in\nthe street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end\nto end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little\nspace for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window.\nHe made no movement, but gave a low chuckle.\n\n\"Why don't you light the candle?\" he said then.\n\nPhilip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the\nfloor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw\nwas lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and\nhis baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.\n\n\"I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you\nhere?\"\n\n\"George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his\nwork.\"\n\n\"Who's George?\"\n\n\"I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial\napartment with me.\"\n\nPhilip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was\nslept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.\n\n\"You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?\" he\ncried.\n\n\"Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at\neight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn't\nin my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away\nthe hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He's a Swiss,\nand I've always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an\nentertaining angle.\"\n\n\"How long have you been in bed?\"\n\n\"Three days.\"\n\n\"D'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last\nthree days? Why on earth didn't you send me a line? I can't bear to think\nof you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you.\"\n\nCronshaw gave a little laugh.\n\n\"Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you're distressed. You\nnice fellow.\"\n\nPhilip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he\nfelt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of\nthe poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile.\n\n\"I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am\nindifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the\ncircumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of\ntime and space?\"\n\nThe proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had\nbeen able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his\neyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he\nread out a stanza.\n\n\"They don't look bad, do they?\"\n\nPhilip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could\nnot afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other\nhand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy.\n\n\"I say, I can't bear the thought of your remaining here. I've got an extra\nroom, it's empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a\nbed. Won't you come and live with me for a while? It'll save you the rent\nof this.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear boy, you'd insist on my keeping my window open.\"\n\n\"You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like.\"\n\n\"I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt\nlazy.\"\n\n\"Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don't feel well\nat any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after\nyou.\"\n\n\"If it'll please you I'll come,\" said Cronshaw, with his torpid not\nunpleasant smile.\n\n\"That'll be ripping.\"\n\nThey settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip\nsnatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found\nCronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a\nsmall, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already\npacked: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were\nsitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of\nhim. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows\nwere carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He\nhad gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand\nbedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled\ndown at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.\n\nPhilip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his\ndisease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did\nnot see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to\nshare the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but\nCronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get\nhimself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in\nSoho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew\na doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to\ndo. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at\nmid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at\nmidnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished\nPhilip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and\nthe volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring,\nwhen the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche of\nChristmas books.\n\n\n\nLXXXIV\n\n\nAt the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients'\ndepartment. The work was of the same character as that which he had just\nbeen engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has than\nmedicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those two\ndiseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread\nbroadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was called\nJacobs. He was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head,\nand a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described by\nthe students as an 'awful bounder'; but his cleverness, both as a surgeon\nand as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. He had also a\nconsiderable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patients\nand on the students. He took a great pleasure in making his dressers look\nfoolish. Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he\nwere their equal, this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons,\nwith the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who\nhad to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a boy with\na club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything could be done.\nMr. Jacobs turned to Philip.\n\n\"You'd better take this case, Carey. It's a subject you ought to know\nsomething about.\"\n\nPhilip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with a\nhumorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. It\nwas in point of fact a subject which Philip, since coming to the hospital,\nhad studied with anxious attention. He had read everything in the library\nwhich treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take off\nhis boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, and\na freckled face. His father explained that they wanted something done if\npossible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. Philip\nlooked at him curiously. He was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkative\nand with a cheekiness which his father reproved. He was much interested in\nhis foot.\n\n\"It's only for the looks of the thing, you know,\" he said to Philip. \"I\ndon't find it no trouble.\"\n\n\"Be quiet, Ernie,\" said his father. \"There's too much gas about you.\"\n\nPhilip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessness\nof it. He could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliation\nwhich always oppressed himself. He wondered why he could not take his\ndeformity with that philosophic indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came up\nto him. The boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philip\nstood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were\nstudents. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic little\ndiscourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the forms\nwhich followed upon different anatomical conditions.\n\n\"I suppose you've got talipes equinus?\" he said, turning suddenly to\nPhilip.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nPhilip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursed\nhimself because he could not help blushing. He felt the sweat start up in\nthe palms of his hands. The surgeon spoke with the fluency due to long\npractice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. He\nwas tremendously interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen.\nHe was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly he\nrealised that Jacobs was addressing him.\n\n\"You don't mind taking off your sock for a moment, Carey?\"\n\nPhilip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an impulse to tell the\nsurgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. He\nfeared his brutal ridicule. He forced himself to appear indifferent.\n\n\"Not a bit,\" he said.\n\nHe sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were trembling and he\nthought he should never untie the knot. He remembered how they had forced\nhim at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into his\nsoul.\n\n\"He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn't he?\" said Jacobs, in his\nrasping, cockney voice.\n\nThe attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that the boy whom they were\nexamining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. Jacobs took the\nfoot in his hands and said:\n\n\"Yes, that's what I thought. I see you've had an operation. When you were\na child, I suppose?\"\n\nHe went on with his fluent explanations. The students leaned over and\nlooked at the foot. Two or three examined it minutely when Jacobs let it\ngo.\n\n\"When you've quite done,\" said Philip, with a smile, ironically.\n\nHe could have killed them all. He thought how jolly it would be to jab a\nchisel (he didn't know why that particular instrument came into his mind)\ninto their necks. What beasts men were! He wished he could believe in hell\nso as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures which\nwould be theirs. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talked\npartly to the boy's father and partly to the students. Philip put on his\nsock and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed to\nhave an afterthought and turned to Philip.\n\n\"You know, I think it might be worth your while to have an operation. Of\ncourse I couldn't give you a normal foot, but I think I can do something.\nYou might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just come\ninto the hospital for a bit.\"\n\nPhilip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but his\ndistaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him from\nconsulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. His reading told him that\nwhatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatment\nof talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was small\nchance now of any great benefit. Still it would be worth while if an\noperation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to\nlimp less. He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle\nwhich his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiled\nruefully.\n\n\"I was rather a simple soul in those days,\" he thought.\n\n\nTowards the end of February it was clear that Cronshaw was growing much\nworse. He was no longer able to get up. He lay in bed, insisting that the\nwindow should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would take\nlittle nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew that\nhe should have neither, but Cronshaw's argument was unanswerable.\n\n\"I daresay they are killing me. I don't care. You've warned me, you've\ndone all that was necessary: I ignore your warning. Give me something to\ndrink and be damned to you.\"\n\nLeonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was something\nof the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptive\nof the manner of his appearance. He was a weedy-looking fellow of\nfive-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look of\na man who lived too little in the open air. He wore a hat like a\ndissenting minister's. Philip disliked him for his patronising manner and\nwas bored by his fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himself\ntalk. He was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the\nfirst requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he was\ntelling people what they knew already. With measured words he told Philip\nwhat to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar Franck. Philip's\ncharwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip was\nobliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohn\ntold Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not\noffer to make it possible.\n\n\"It's dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he might die\nwithout a soul at hand.\"\n\n\"I think he very probably will,\" said Philip.\n\n\"How can you be so callous!\"\n\n\"Why don't you come and do your work here every day, and then you'd be\nnear if he wanted anything?\" asked Philip drily.\n\n\"I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I'm used to, and\nbesides I go out so much.\"\n\nUpjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw to\nhis own rooms.\n\n\"I wish you had left him in Soho,\" he said, with a wave of his long, thin\nhands. \"There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. I could even\nbear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of\nKennington! What a place for a poet to die!\"\n\nCronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temper\nby remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the\ndisease. Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw\nwould complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency.\n\n\"The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty,\" he smiled. \"He has a\nmiddle-class mind.\"\n\nHe was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a good deal of\nself-control in his dealings with him. But one evening he could not\ncontain himself. He had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out.\nLeonard Upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in\nthe kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Philip's insistence\nthat he should have a doctor.\n\n\"Don't you realise that you're enjoying a very rare, a very exquisite\nprivilege? You ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show your\nsense of the greatness of your trust.\"\n\n\"It's a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford,\" said Philip.\n\nWhenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn assumed a\nslightly disdainful expression. His sensitive temperament was offended by\nthe reference.\n\n\"There's something fine in Cronshaw's attitude, and you disturb it by your\nimportunity. You should make allowances for the delicate imaginings which\nyou cannot feel.\"\n\nPhilip's face darkened.\n\n\"Let us go in to Cronshaw,\" he said frigidly.\n\nThe poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth.\nThe air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding Philip's tidying up, had\nthe bedraggled look which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went.\nHe took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage.\n\n\"Upjohn tells me you've been complaining to him because I've urged you to\nhave a doctor,\" he said. \"I want you to have a doctor, because you may die\nany day, and if you hadn't been seen by anyone I shouldn't be able to get\na certificate. There'd have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for\nnot calling a doctor in.\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my\nsake and not for your own. I'll see a doctor whenever you like.\"\n\nPhilip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the\nshoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle.\n\n\"Don't look so angry, my dear. I know very well you want to do everything\nyou can for me. Let's see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me,\nand at any rate it'll comfort you.\" He turned his eyes to Upjohn. \"You're\na damned fool, Leonard. Why d'you want to worry the boy? He has quite\nenough to do to put up with me. You'll do nothing more for me than write\na pretty article about me after my death. I know you.\"\n\nNext day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he was the sort of man to\nbe interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day's\nwork he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could only agree with what\nPhilip had told him. The case was hopeless.\n\n\"I'll take him into the hospital if you like,\" he said. \"He can have a\nsmall ward.\"\n\n\"Nothing would induce him to come.\"\n\n\"You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of\npneumonia.\"\n\nPhilip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to\ncome again whenever Philip wanted him to. He left his address. When Philip\nwent back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble to\ninquire what the doctor had said.\n\n\"Are you satisfied now, dear boy?\" he asked.\n\n\"I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell\nadvised?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" smiled Cronshaw.\n\n\n\nLXXXV\n\n\nAbout a fortnight after this Philip, going home one evening after his\nday's work at the hospital, knocked at the door of Cronshaw's room. He got\nno answer and walked in. Cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and\nPhilip went up to the bed. He did not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or\nmerely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability. He was\nsurprised to see that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip\ngave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw's shirt and felt\nhis heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of\nthis being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. It\nstartled him to be alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat still on,\nand he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to\nHarley Street. Dr. Tyrell was in.\n\n\"I say, would you mind coming at once? I think Cronshaw's dead.\"\n\n\"If he is it's not much good my coming, is it?\"\n\n\"I should be awfully grateful if you would. I've got a cab at the door.\nIt'll only take half an hour.\"\n\nTyrell put on his hat. In the cab he asked him one or two questions.\n\n\"He seemed no worse than usual when I left this morning,\" said Philip. \"It\ngave me an awful shock when I went in just now. And the thought of his\ndying all alone.... D'you think he knew he was going to die?\"\n\nPhilip remembered what Cronshaw had said. He wondered whether at that last\nmoment he had been seized with the terror of death. Philip imagined\nhimself in such a plight, knowing it was inevitable and with no one, not\na soul, to give an encouraging word when the fear seized him.\n\n\"You're rather upset,\" said Dr. Tyrell.\n\nHe looked at him with his bright blue eyes. They were not unsympathetic.\nWhen he saw Cronshaw, he said:\n\n\"He must have been dead for some hours. I should think he died in his\nsleep. They do sometimes.\"\n\nThe body looked shrunk and ignoble. It was not like anything human. Dr.\nTyrell looked at it dispassionately. With a mechanical gesture he took out\nhis watch.\n\n\"Well, I must be getting along. I'll send the certificate round. I suppose\nyou'll communicate with the relatives.\"\n\n\"I don't think there are any,\" said Philip.\n\n\"How about the funeral?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll see to that.\"\n\nDr. Tyrell gave Philip a glance. He wondered whether he ought to offer a\ncouple of sovereigns towards it. He knew nothing of Philip's\ncircumstances; perhaps he could well afford the expense; Philip might\nthink it impertinent if he made any suggestion.\n\n\"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do,\" he said.\n\nPhilip and he went out together, parting on the doorstep, and Philip went\nto a telegraph office in order to send a message to Leonard Upjohn. Then\nhe went to an undertaker whose shop he passed every day on his way to the\nhospital. His attention had been drawn to it often by the three words in\nsilver lettering on a black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned\nthe window: Economy, Celerity, Propriety. They had always diverted him.\nThe undertaker was a little fat Jew with curly black hair, long and\ngreasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. He received\nPhilip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of his natural\nblatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. He quickly saw that\nPhilip was very helpless and promised to send round a woman at once to\nperform the needful offices. His suggestions for the funeral were very\nmagnificent; and Philip felt ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed\nto think his objections mean. It was horrible to haggle on such a matter,\nand finally Philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill\nafford.\n\n\"I quite understand, sir,\" said the undertaker, \"you don't want any show\nand that--I'm not a believer in ostentation myself, mind you--but you want\nit done gentlemanly-like. You leave it to me, I'll do it as cheap as it\ncan be done, 'aving regard to what's right and proper. I can't say more\nthan that, can I?\"\n\nPhilip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along\nto lay out the corpse. Presently a telegram arrived from Leonard Upjohn.\n\n\nShocked and grieved beyond measure. Regret cannot come tonight. Dining\nout. With you early tomorrow. Deepest sympathy. Upjohn.\n\n\nIn a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room.\n\n\"I've done now, sir. Will you come and look at 'im and see it's all\nright?\"\n\nPhilip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed\nand his hands folded piously across his chest.\n\n\"You ought by rights to 'ave a few flowers, sir.\"\n\n\"I'll get some tomorrow.\"\n\nShe gave the body a glance of satisfaction. She had performed her job, and\nnow she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her\nbonnet. Philip asked her how much he owed her.\n\n\"Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five\nshillings.\"\n\nPhilip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum. She thanked him\nwith just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he\nmight be supposed to feel, and left him. Philip went back into his\nsitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read\nWalsham's Surgery. He found it difficult. He felt singularly nervous.\nWhen there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat\nviolently. That thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now\nwas nothing, frightened him. The silence seemed alive, as if some\nmysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death\nweighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: Philip felt a sudden\nhorror for what had once been his friend. He tried to force himself to\nread, but presently pushed away his book in despair. What troubled him was\nthe absolute futility of the life which had just ended. It did not matter\nif Cronshaw was alive or dead. It would have been just as well if he had\nnever lived. Philip thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of\nimagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair\non his head, buoyant and hopeful. Philip's rule of life, to follow one's\ninstincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted\nvery well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made\nsuch a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed that the instincts could\nnot be trusted. Philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life\nwas there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather\nthan in another. They acted according to their emotions, but their\nemotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to\ntriumph or disaster. Life seemed an inextricable confusion. Men hurried\nhither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it\nall escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying's sake.\n\nNext morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. He was\npleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted,\nnotwithstanding Philip's disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head;\nbut the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn\nby a low comedian in a music-hall.\n\n\"I'll put it over his heart instead,\" said Upjohn.\n\n\"You've put it on his stomach,\" remarked Philip.\n\nUpjohn gave a thin smile.\n\n\"Only a poet knows where lies a poet's heart,\" he answered.\n\nThey went back into the sitting-room, and Philip told him what\narrangements he had made for the funeral.\n\n\"I hoped you've spared no expense. I should like the hearse to be followed\nby a long string of empty coaches, and I should like the horses to wear\ntall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long\nstreamers on their hats. I like the thought of all those empty coaches.\"\n\n\"As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and I'm not over\nflush just now, I've tried to make it as moderate as possible.\"\n\n\"But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn't you get him a pauper's\nfuneral? There would have been something poetic in that. You have an\nunerring instinct for mediocrity.\"\n\nPhilip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and Upjohn\nfollowed the hearse in the one carriage which Philip had ordered. Lawson,\nunable to come, had sent a wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should\nnot seem too neglected, had bought a couple. On the way back the coachman\nwhipped up his horses. Philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep.\nHe was awakened by Upjohn's voice.\n\n\"It's rather lucky the poems haven't come out yet. I think we'd better\nhold them back a bit and I'll write a preface. I began thinking of it\nduring the drive to the cemetery. I believe I can do something rather\ngood. Anyhow I'll start with an article in The Saturday.\"\n\nPhilip did not reply, and there was silence between them. At last Upjohn\nsaid:\n\n\"I daresay I'd be wiser not to whittle away my copy. I think I'll do an\narticle for one of the reviews, and then I can just print it afterwards as\na preface.\"\n\nPhilip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared.\nThe article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in\nmany of the papers. It was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for\nno one knew much of Cronshaw's early life, but delicate, tender, and\npicturesque. Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little\npictures of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry:\nCronshaw became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard\nUpjohn's coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic\ngrandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in\nSoho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much\ngreater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made\nto transport the Poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a\nflowering orchard. And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless,\nwhich had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of\nKennington! Leonard Upjohn described Kennington with that restrained\nhumour which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of Sir Thomas Browne\nnecessitated. With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the\npatience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young\nstudent who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that\ndivine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. Beauty from\nashes, he quoted from Isaiah. It was a triumph of irony for that outcast\npoet to die amid the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded\nLeonard Upjohn of Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him\nopportunity for an exquisite passage. And then he told how a friend--his\ngood taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend was\nwith such gracious fancies--had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet's\nheart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous\npassion upon Apollo's leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of art, and more\ngreen than jade brought by swart mariners from the manifold, inexplicable\nChina. And, an admirable contrast, the article ended with a description of\nthe middle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been\nburied like a prince or like a pauper. It was the crowning buffet, the\nfinal victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things.\n\nLeonard Upjohn had never written anything better. It was a miracle of\ncharm, grace, and pity. He printed all Cronshaw's best poems in the course\nof the article, so that when the volume appeared much of its point was\ngone; but he advanced his own position a good deal. He was thenceforth a\ncritic to be reckoned with. He had seemed before a little aloof; but there\nwas a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive.\n\n\n\nLXXXVI\n\n\nIn the spring Philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients'\ndepartment, became an in-patients' clerk. This appointment lasted six\nmonths. The clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men's,\nthen in the women's, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, made\ntests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. On two afternoons a\nweek the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students,\nexamined the cases, and dispensed information. The work had not the\nexcitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the\nwork in the out-patients' department; but Philip picked up a good deal of\nknowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a little\nflattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. He was\nnot conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them;\nand because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others of\nthe clerks. He was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. Like everyone\nconnected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to get\non with than female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. They\ncomplained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them the\nattention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful,\nand rude.\n\nPresently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. One morning the\nhouse-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the\nbedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the 'letter.' He\nnoticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist:\nhis name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and\nhis age was forty-eight. He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice,\nand had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it\nseemed necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it was\nPhilip's duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he was lying\nin bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small\nhead and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average\nheight. Philip had the habit of looking at people's hands, and Athelny's\nastonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and\nbeautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the\njaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. The patient kept them\noutside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and\nthird fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to\ncontemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes Philip\nglanced at the man's face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it was\ndistinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked,\naggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he was\nrather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily,\nand he still wore it long.\n\n\"I see you're a journalist,\" said Philip. \"What papers d'you write for?\"\n\n\"I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper without seeing some\nof my writing.\" There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it\nhe pointed out an advertisement. In large letters was the name of a firm\nwell-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below,\nin type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement:\nProcrastination is the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling because\nof its reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, in\nlarge letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer's heart: Why\nnot? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets\nof the world at astounding prices. Thousands of pairs of stockings from\nthe most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions.\nFinally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet\nin the lists: Why not order today?\n\n\"I'm the press representative of Lynn and Sedley.\" He gave a little wave\nof his beautiful hand. \"To what base uses...\"\n\nPhilip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of\nroutine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things\nwhich he might be expected to desire to conceal.\n\n\"Have you ever lived abroad?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"I was in Spain for eleven years.\"\n\n\"What were you doing there?\"\n\n\"I was secretary of the English water company at Toledo.\"\n\nPhilip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and the\njournalist's answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt\nit would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the\ndistance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finished\nhis examination he went on to other beds.\n\nThorpe Athelny's illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow,\nhe soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physician\nthought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions became\nnormal. One day, on entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencil\nin hand, was reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed.\n\n\"May I see what you're reading?\" asked Philip, who could never pass a book\nwithout looking at it.\n\nPhilip took it up and saw that it was a volume of Spanish verse, the poems\nof San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out.\nPhilip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it.\n\n\"You're not going to tell me you've been occupying your leisure in writing\npoetry? That's a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient.\"\n\n\"I was trying to do some translations. D'you know Spanish?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don't you?\"\n\n\"I don't indeed.\"\n\n\"He was one of the Spanish mystics. He's one of the best poets they've\never had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English.\"\n\n\"May I look at your translation?\"\n\n\"It's very rough,\" said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity\nwhich suggested that he was eager for him to read it.\n\nIt was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which\nwas hard to read: it was just like black letter.\n\n\"Doesn't it take you an awful time to write like that? It's wonderful.\"\n\n\"I don't know why handwriting shouldn't be beautiful.\" Philip read the\nfirst verse:\n\n             In an obscure night\n             With anxious love inflamed\n             O happy lot!\n             Forth unobserved I went,\n             My house being now at rest...\n\n\nPhilip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did not know whether he felt\na little shy with him or was attracted by him. He was conscious that his\nmanner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that\nAthelny might have thought him ridiculous.\n\n\"What an unusual name you've got,\" he remarked, for something to say.\n\n\"It's a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the head of my family a\nday's hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty are\nfallen. Fast women and slow horses.\"\n\nHe was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar\nintensity. He took up his volume of poetry.\n\n\"You should read Spanish,\" he said. \"It is a noble tongue. It has not the\nmellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and\norgan-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a\ngarden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood.\"\n\nHis grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and he\nlistened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions and the\nfire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading\nDon Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate,\nof the enchanting Calderon.\n\n\"I must get on with my work,\" said Philip presently.\n\n\"Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph of\nToledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have the\nchance. You don't know what a pleasure it gives me.\"\n\nDuring the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was\nopportunity, Philip's acquaintance with the journalist increased. Thorpe\nAthelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but he talked\ninspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; Philip,\nliving so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming with\nnew pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He knew much more than\nPhilip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and the\nreadiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he was\nin the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and he\nheld himself between the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philip\nasked him why he had come to the hospital.\n\n\"Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides.\nI take advantage of the age I live in. When I'm ill I get myself patched\nup in a hospital and I have no false shame, and I send my children to be\neducated at the board-school.\"\n\n\"Do you really?\" said Philip.\n\n\"And a capital education they get too, much better than I got at\nWinchester. How else do you think I could educate them at all? I've got\nnine. You must come and see them all when I get home again. Will you?\"\n\n\"I'd like to very much,\" said Philip.\n\n\n\nLXXXVII\n\n\nTen days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. He\ngave Philip his address, and Philip promised to dine with him at one\no'clock on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him that he lived in a\nhouse built by Inigo Jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything,\nover the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door for\nPhilip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. It\nwas a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of\nits period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which\nhad once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was\na plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the\nrents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a\nprice which suited his income. Philip had not seen him up before and was\nsurprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five\ninches high. He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the\nsort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he\nwore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a\nflowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of\nPunch. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once of\nthe house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters.\n\n\"Look at it, feel it, it's like silk. What a miracle of grace! And in five\nyears the house-breaker will sell it for firewood.\"\n\nHe insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a man\nin shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their\nSunday dinner.\n\n\"I've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did you\never see anything so wonderful? How are you, Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr.\nCarey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital.\"\n\n\"Come in, sir,\" said the man. \"Any friend of Mr. Athelny's is welcome. Mr.\nAthelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. And it don't matter what\nwe're doing, if we're in bed or if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes.\"\n\nPhilip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but they\nliked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed\nwith his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century\nceiling.\n\n\"What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You're an influential\ncitizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?\"\n\nThe man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip:\n\n\"Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke. They do say these 'ouses are that\ninsanitory, it's not safe to live in them.\"\n\n\"Sanitation be damned, give me art,\" cried Athelny. \"I've got nine\nchildren and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I'm not going to take any\nrisk. None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I'm\ngoing to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything.\"\n\nThere was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it.\n\n\"Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner.\"\n\n\"This is my third daughter,\" said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic\nforefinger. \"She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willingly\nto the name of Jane. Jane, your nose wants blowing.\"\n\n\"I haven't got a hanky, daddy.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, child,\" he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna,\n\"what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?\"\n\nThey went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled\nin dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs,\nwith two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de\nhieraje. They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there\nwere two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs,\nand leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The only\nother piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with\ngilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very\nfinely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken\nbut rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish\nschool in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject,\nruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they\nhad a glow of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but the\neffect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that it\noffered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showing\nhim the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and\nsecret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair\nhanging down her back, came in.\n\n\"Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to bring it in as soon as\nyou sit down.\"\n\n\"Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally.\" He turned to Philip. \"Isn't\nshe enormous? She's my eldest. How old are you, Sally?\"\n\n\"Fifteen, father, come next June.\"\n\n\"I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I\ndedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her\nSally and her brother Pudding-Face.\"\n\nThe girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. She was\nwell set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad\nforehead. She had red cheeks.\n\n\"Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey before\nhe sits down.\"\n\n\"Mother says she'll come in after dinner. She hasn't washed herself yet.\"\n\n\"Then we'll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn't eat the Yorkshire\npudding till he's shaken the hand that made it.\"\n\nPhilip followed his host into the kitchen. It was small and much\novercrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the\nstranger entered. There was a large table in the middle and round it,\neager for dinner, were seated Athelny's children. A woman was standing at\nthe oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one.\n\n\"Here's Mr. Carey, Betty,\" said Athelny.\n\n\"Fancy bringing him in here. What will he think?\"\n\nShe wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up\nabove her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was a\nlarge woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue\neyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but\nadvancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and\nblousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the\ncolour had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her hand\non her apron, and held it out.\n\n\"You're welcome, sir,\" she said, in a slow voice, with an accent that\nseemed oddly familiar to Philip. \"Athelny said you was very kind to him in\nthe 'orspital.\"\n\n\"Now you must be introduced to the live stock,\" said Athelny. \"That is\nThorpe,\" he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, \"he is my eldest son,\nheir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. There is\nAthelstan, Harold, Edward.\" He pointed with his forefinger to three\nsmaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt\nPhilip's smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates.\n\"Now the girls in order: Maria del Sol...\"\n\n\"Pudding-Face,\" said one of the small boys.\n\n\"Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria de los Mercedes, Maria\ndel Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del Rosario.\"\n\n\"I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane,\" said Mrs. Athelny.\n\"Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and I'll send you your dinner.\nI'll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when I've washed them.\"\n\n\"My dear, if I'd had the naming of you I should have called you Maria of\nthe Soapsuds. You're always torturing these wretched brats with soap.\"\n\n\"You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him to sit down and eat his\ndinner.\"\n\nAthelny and Philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, and\nSally brought them in two plates of beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked\npotatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and sent\nher for a jug of beer.\n\n\"I hope you didn't have the table laid here on my account,\" said Philip.\n\"I should have been quite happy to eat with the children.\"\n\n\"Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like these antique customs. I\ndon't think that women ought to sit down at table with men. It ruins\nconversation and I'm sure it's very bad for them. It puts ideas in their\nheads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas.\"\n\nBoth host and guest ate with a hearty appetite.\n\n\"Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one can make it like my\nwife. That's the advantage of not marrying a lady. You noticed she wasn't\na lady, didn't you?\"\n\nIt was an awkward question, and Philip did not know how to answer it.\n\n\"I never thought about it,\" he said lamely.\n\nAthelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous laugh.\n\n\"No, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. Her father was a farmer, and\nshe's never bothered about aitches in her life. We've had twelve children\nand nine of them are alive. I tell her it's about time she stopped, but\nshe's an obstinate woman, she's got into the habit of it now, and I don't\nbelieve she'll be satisfied till she's had twenty.\"\n\nAt that moment Sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glass\nfor Philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for her\nfather. He put his hand round her waist.\n\n\"Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? Only fifteen and she\nmight be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She's never had a day's illness in\nher life. It'll be a lucky man who marries her, won't it, Sally?\"\n\nSally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much\nembarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father's outbursts, but with an\neasy modesty which was very attractive.\n\n\"Don't let your dinner get cold, father,\" she said, drawing herself away\nfrom his arm. \"You'll call when you're ready for your pudding, won't you?\"\n\nThey were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips.\nHe drank long and deep.\n\n\"My word, is there anything better than English beer?\" he said. \"Let us\nthank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good\nappetite and beer. I was married to a lady once. My God! Don't marry a\nlady, my boy.\"\n\nPhilip laughed. He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in\nhis odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the English\nfare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity.\n\n\"You laugh, my boy, you can't imagine marrying beneath you. You want a\nwife who's an intellectual equal. Your head is crammed full of ideas of\ncomradeship. Stuff and nonsense, my boy! A man doesn't want to talk\npolitics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty's views upon\nthe Differential Calculus? A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and\nlook after his children. I've tried both and I know. Let's have the\npudding in.\"\n\nHe clapped his hands and presently Sally came. When she took away the\nplates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him.\n\n\"Let her alone, my boy. She doesn't want you to fuss about, do you, Sally?\nAnd she won't think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you.\nShe don't care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?\"\n\n\"No, father,\" answered Sally demurely.\n\n\"Do you know what I'm talking about, Sally?\"\n\n\"No, father. But you know mother doesn't like you to swear.\"\n\nAthelny laughed boisterously. Sally brought them plates of rice pudding,\nrich, creamy, and luscious. Athelny attacked his with gusto.\n\n\"One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter.\nIt is a ritual. Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year.\nOn Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose and\napple sauce. Thus we preserve the traditions of our people. When Sally\nmarries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but she\nwill never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on\nSundays roast beef and rice pudding.\"\n\n\"You'll call when you're ready for cheese,\" said Sally impassively.\n\n\"D'you know the legend of the halcyon?\" said Athelny: Philip was growing\nused to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. \"When the\nkingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herself\nbeneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. That is what a\nman wants in a wife, the halcyon. I lived with my first wife for three\nyears. She was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to give\nnice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in Kensington.\nShe was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wives\nwho dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the budding\npoliticians; oh, she was a charming woman. She made me go to church in a\nsilk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she was\nvery fond of lectures on Sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfast\nevery morning at eight-thirty, and if I was late breakfast was cold; and\nshe read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the right\nmusic. My God, how that woman bored me! She is charming still, and she\nlives in the little red brick house in Kensington, with Morris papers and\nWhistler's etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinner\nparties, with veal creams and ices from Gunter's, as she did twenty years\nago.\"\n\nPhilip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, but\nAthelny told him.\n\n\"Betty's not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn't divorce me. The children\nare bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that?\nBetty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in Kensington.\nFour or five years ago I was on my uppers, and I had seven children, and\nI went to my wife and asked her to help me. She said she'd make me an\nallowance if I'd give Betty up and go abroad. Can you see me giving Betty\nup? We starved for a while instead. My wife said I loved the gutter. I've\ndegenerated; I've come down in the world; I earn three pounds a week as\npress agent to a linendraper, and every day I thank God that I'm not in\nthe little red brick house in Kensington.\"\n\nSally brought in Cheddar cheese, and Athelny went on with his fluent\nconversation.\n\n\"It's the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money to\nbring up a family. You need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, but\nI don't want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. Sally's going to earn\nher living in another year. She's to be apprenticed to a dressmaker,\naren't you, Sally? And the boys are going to serve their country. I want\nthem all to go into the Navy; it's a jolly life and a healthy life, good\nfood, good pay, and a pension to end their days on.\"\n\nPhilip lit his pipe. Athelny smoked cigarettes of Havana tobacco, which he\nrolled himself. Sally cleared away. Philip was reserved, and it\nembarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. Athelny, with\nhis powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with his\nforeign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. He reminded\nPhilip a good deal of Cronshaw. He appeared to have the same independence\nof thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacious\ntemperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in the\nabstract which made Cronshaw's conversation so captivating. Athelny was\nvery proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed Philip\nphotographs of an Elizabethan mansion, and told him:\n\n\"The Athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. Ah, if you saw\nthe chimney-pieces and the ceilings!\"\n\nThere was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a family\ntree. He showed it to Philip with child-like satisfaction. It was indeed\nimposing.\n\n\"You see how the family names recur, Thorpe, Athelstan, Harold, Edward;\nI've used the family names for my sons. And the girls, you see, I've given\nSpanish names to.\"\n\nAn uneasy feeling came to Philip that possibly the whole story was an\nelaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wish\nto impress, startle, and amaze. Athelny had told him that he was at\nWinchester; but Philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feel\nthat his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great public\nschool. While he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors had\nformed, Philip amused himself by wondering whether Athelny was not the son\nof some tradesman in Winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whether\na similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancient\nfamily whose tree he was displaying.\n\n\n\nLXXXVIII\n\n\nThere was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. They were\nclean and tidy, now. Their faces shone with soap, and their hair was\nplastered down; they were going to Sunday school under Sally's charge.\nAthelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could\nsee that he was devoted to them all. His pride in their good health and\ntheir good looks was touching. Philip felt that they were a little shy in\nhis presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room\nin evident relief. In a few minutes Mrs. Athelny appeared. She had taken\nher hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. She had\non a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her\nhands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves.\n\n\"I'm going to church, Athelny,\" she said. \"There's nothing you'll be\nwanting, is there?\"\n\n\"Only your prayers, my Betty.\"\n\n\"They won't do you much good, you're too far gone for that,\" she smiled.\nThen, turning to Philip, she drawled: \"I can't get him to go to church.\nHe's no better than an atheist.\"\n\n\"Doesn't she look like Rubens' second wife?\" cried Athelny. \"Wouldn't she\nlook splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? That's the sort of wife to\nmarry, my boy. Look at her.\"\n\n\"I believe you'd talk the hind leg off a donkey, Athelny,\" she answered\ncalmly.\n\nShe succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to\nPhilip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile.\n\n\"You'll stay to tea, won't you? Athelny likes someone to talk to, and it's\nnot often he gets anybody who's clever enough.\"\n\n\"Of course he'll stay to tea,\" said Athelny. Then when his wife had gone:\n\"I make a point of the children going to Sunday school, and I like Betty\nto go to church. I think women ought to be religious. I don't believe\nmyself, but I like women and children to.\"\n\nPhilip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this\nairy attitude.\n\n\"But how can you look on while your children are being taught things which\nyou don't think are true?\"\n\n\"If they're beautiful I don't much mind if they're not true. It's asking\na great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your\nsense of the aesthetic. I wanted Betty to become a Roman Catholic, I\nshould have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but\nshe's hopelessly Protestant. Besides, religion is a matter of temperament;\nyou will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if\nyou haven't it doesn't matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you\nwill grow out of them. Perhaps religion is the best school of morality. It\nis like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries\nanother in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other\nto be absorbed. You take your morality because it is combined with\nreligion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. A man is\nmore likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love\nof God than through a perusal of Herbert Spencer.\"\n\nThis was contrary to all Philip's ideas. He still looked upon Christianity\nas a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was\nconnected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the\ncathedral at Tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church\nat Blackstable; and the morality of which Athelny spoke was to him no more\nthan a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when\nit had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. But while he\nwas meditating a reply Athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak\nthan in discussion, broke into a tirade upon Roman Catholicism. For him it\nwas an essential part of Spain; and Spain meant much to him, because he\nhad escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life\nhe had found so irksome. With large gestures and in the emphatic tone\nwhich made what he said so striking, Athelny described to Philip the\nSpanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the\naltar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden\nwith incense, the silence: Philip almost saw the Canons in their short\nsurplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the\nchoir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. The names which\nAthelny mentioned, Avila, Tarragona, Saragossa, Segovia, Cordova, were\nlike trumpets in his heart. He seemed to see the great gray piles of\ngranite set in old Spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and\nwindswept.\n\n\"I've always thought I should love to go to Seville,\" he said casually,\nwhen Athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment.\n\n\"Seville!\" cried Athelny. \"No, no, don't go there. Seville: it brings to\nthe mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the\nGuadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de\nManila. It is the Spain of comic opera and Montmartre. Its facile charm\ncan offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is\nsuperficial. Theophile Gautier got out of Seville all that it has to\noffer. We who come after him can only repeat his sensations. He put large\nfat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and\nit is all finger-marked and frayed. Murillo is its painter.\"\n\nAthelny got up from his chair, walked over to the Spanish cabinet, let\ndown the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed\na series of little drawers. He took out a bundle of photographs.\n\n\"Do you know El Greco?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I remember one of the men in Paris was awfully impressed by him.\"\n\n\"El Greco was the painter of Toledo. Betty couldn't find the photograph I\nwanted to show you. It's a picture that El Greco painted of the city he\nloved, and it's truer than any photograph. Come and sit at the table.\"\n\nPhilip dragged his chair forward, and Athelny set the photograph before\nhim. He looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. He stretched\nout his hand for other photographs, and Athelny passed them to him. He had\nnever before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first\nglance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were\nextraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were\nextravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the\nphotographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was\ndescribing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what\nhe said. He was puzzled. He was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to\noffer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. There\nwere portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you\nknew not what; there were long monks in the Franciscan habit or in the\nDominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you;\nthere was an Assumption of the Virgin; there was a Crucifixion in which\nthe painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the\nflesh of Christ's dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there\nwas an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the\nempyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid\nground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies,\ntheir ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy.\nThe background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the\nsoul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by\nan uneasy moon.\n\n\"I've seen that sky in Toledo over and over again,\" said Athelny. \"I have\nan idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night,\nand it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get\naway from it.\"\n\nPhilip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master,\nwhose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the\nmost interesting of all the people he had known in Paris. His sardonic\nmanner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it\nseemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force,\nwhich sought vainly to express itself in painting. He was a man of unusual\ncharacter, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to\nmysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to\nsay the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. His\nintellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. It was not\nsurprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a\nnew technique to express the yearnings of his soul. Philip looked again at\nthe series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed\nbeards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the\ndarkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and\nthese gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with\ntheir tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for\ntheir eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of\nthe unseen. No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a\nplace of passage. The souls of the men he painted speak their strange\nlongings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for\nsounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the\nsoul. The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see\nthings which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. His\nlips are not lips that smile.\n\nPhilip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed\nto him the most arresting picture of them all. He could not take his eyes\noff it. He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new\ndiscovery in life. He was tremulous with a sense of adventure. He thought\nfor an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial\nbeside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. The picture he looked\nat was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy\nwas holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure\nrepresenting the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by\nangels. It was a landscape alien to all Philip's notion, for he had lived\nin circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to\nhimself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in\nwhose steps humbly he had sought to walk. He heard Athelny say that the\nrepresentation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to\nlook at the picture they recognised their houses. The painter had painted\nexactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. There was\nsomething unearthly in that city of pale gray. It was a city of the soul\nseen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. It stood on a\ngreen hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by\nmassive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of\nman's invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by\nmortifications of the flesh. It was a stronghold of God. Those gray houses\nwere made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in\ntheir aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. You might\nwalk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and\nyet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every\ninner sense. It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like\none who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and\nfro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience,\nintimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. And without surprise, in that\nblue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses,\nwith its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries\nand the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red\nand a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. Philip felt that the\ninhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without\nastonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways.\n\nAthelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San\nJuan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for\nthe unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco: they seemed to\nhave the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. They were\nSpaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of\na great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of America and\nthe green islands of the Caribbean Sea; in their veins was the power that\nhad come from age-long battling with the Moor; they were proud, for they\nwere masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances,\nthe tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of Castile, the sunshine and\nthe blue sky, and the flowering plains of Andalusia. Life was passionate\nand manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning\nfor something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and\nthey threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after\nthe ineffable. Athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could\nread the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure;\nand in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the Soul and\nChrist her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una\nnoche oscura, and the noche serena of Fray Luis de Leon. He had\ntranslated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words\nwhich at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. The\npictures of El Greco explained them, and they explained the pictures.\n\nPhilip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a\npassion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for\nthe most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself,\nbecause he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not\nthe strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and\nsince his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself\nwith despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair,\nlanguid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his\ngood looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the\nuncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours\nof the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that\nPhilip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did\nnot offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he\nrubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty,\nselfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned\nthat there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search\nafter beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of\nchocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of\nprettiness?\n\nBut here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all\nhesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt\nhimself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was\nsomething better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it\nwas not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness;\nit was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity,\nugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was\nrealism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by\nthe more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more\nprofoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and\nthe gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted,\nappeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what\nthat significance was. It was like a message which it was very important\nfor him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he\ncould not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and\nhere it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and\nvague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by\nflashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain\nrange. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but\nthat his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as\npassionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see\nthat the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with\nexperience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown\nlands.\n\n\n\nLXXXIX\n\n\nThe conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter\nup the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from\nSunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he asked\nthem what they had learned. Sally appeared for a moment, with instructions\nfrom her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea\nready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen's stories. They\nwere not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philip\nwas not formidable. Jane came and stood by him and presently settled\nherself on his knees. It was the first time that Philip in his lonely life\nhad been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on the\nfair children engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new friend,\neccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of\nperfect naturalness. Sally came in once more.\n\n\"Now then, children, tea's ready,\" she said.\n\nJane slipped off Philip's knees, and they all went back to the kitchen.\nSally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table.\n\n\"Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?\" she asked. \"I can\ngive the children their tea.\"\n\n\"Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour\nus with her company,\" said Athelny.\n\nIt seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical\nflourish.\n\n\"Then I'll lay for her,\" said Sally.\n\nShe came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf,\na slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. While she placed the things\non the table her father chaffed her. He said it was quite time she was\nwalking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would have\nnothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two\nby two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her\nhome.\n\n\"You do talk, father,\" said Sally, with her slow, good-natured smile.\n\n\"You wouldn't think to look at her that a tailor's assistant has enlisted\nin the army because she would not say how d'you do to him and an\nelectrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drink\nbecause she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. I shudder\nto think what will happen when she puts her hair up.\"\n\n\"Mother'll bring the tea along herself,\" said Sally.\n\n\"Sally never pays any attention to me,\" laughed Athelny, looking at her\nwith fond, proud eyes. \"She goes about her business indifferent to wars,\nrevolutions, and cataclysms. What a wife she'll make to an honest man!\"\n\nMrs. Athelny brought in the tea. She sat down and proceeded to cut bread\nand butter. It amused Philip to see that she treated her husband as though\nhe were a child. She spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butter\ninto convenient slices for him to eat. She had taken off her hat; and in\nher Sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like one\nof the farmers' wives whom Philip used to call on sometimes with his uncle\nwhen he was a small boy. Then he knew why the sound of her voice was\nfamiliar to him. She spoke just like the people round Blackstable.\n\n\"What part of the country d'you come from?\" he asked her.\n\n\"I'm a Kentish woman. I come from Ferne.\"\n\n\"I thought as much. My uncle's Vicar of Blackstable.\"\n\n\"That's a funny thing now,\" she said. \"I was wondering in Church just now\nwhether you was any connection of Mr. Carey. Many's the time I've seen\n'im. A cousin of mine married Mr. Barker of Roxley Farm, over by\nBlackstable Church, and I used to go and stay there often when I was a\ngirl. Isn't that a funny thing now?\"\n\nShe looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into her\nfaded eyes. She asked him whether he knew Ferne. It was a pretty village\nabout ten miles across country from Blackstable, and the Vicar had come\nover sometimes to Blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. She mentioned\nnames of various farmers in the neighbourhood. She was delighted to talk\nagain of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasure\nto her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory with\nthe tenacity peculiar to her class. It gave Philip a queer sensation too.\nA breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled room\nin the middle of London. He seemed to see the fat Kentish fields with\ntheir stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; it\nis laden with the salt of the North Sea, and that makes it keen and sharp.\n\nPhilip did not leave the Athelnys' till ten o'clock. The children came in\nto say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces for\nPhilip to kiss. His heart went out to them. Sally only held out her hand.\n\n\"Sally never kisses gentlemen till she's seen them twice,\" said her\nfather.\n\n\"You must ask me again then,\" said Philip.\n\n\"You mustn't take any notice of what father says,\" remarked Sally, with a\nsmile.\n\n\"She's a most self-possessed young woman,\" added her parent.\n\nThey had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while Mrs. Athelny was\nputting the children to bed; and when Philip went into the kitchen to bid\nher good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading\nThe Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come again.\n\n\"There's always a good dinner on Sundays so long as Athelny's in work,\"\nshe said, \"and it's a charity to come and talk to him.\"\n\nOn the following Saturday Philip received a postcard from Athelny saying\nthat they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their means\nwere not such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip wrote\nback that he would only come to tea. He bought a large plum cake so that\nhis entertainment should cost nothing. He found the whole family glad to\nsee him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. He insisted\nthat they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal was\nnoisy and hilarious.\n\nSoon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny's every Sunday. He\nbecame a great favourite with the children, because he was simple and\nunaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. As soon\nas they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of window\nto make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously\nto let him in. They flung themselves into his arms. At tea they fought for\nthe privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him Uncle\nPhilip.\n\nAthelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned the\nvarious stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and it\noccurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he\nattempted. He had been on a tea plantation in Ceylon and a traveller in\nAmerica for Italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company in\nToledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been a\njournalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for an\nevening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the Midlands and\neditor of another on the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gathered\namusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers of\nentertainment. He had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which\nwere unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge with\nchild-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. Three or four years\nbefore abject poverty had driven him to take the job of\npress-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the\nwork unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of his\nwife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it.\n\n\n\nXC\n\n\nWhen he left the Athelnys' Philip walked down Chancery Lane and along the\nStrand to get a 'bus at the top of Parliament Street. One Sunday, when he\nhad known them about six weeks, he did this as usual, but he found the\nKennington 'bus full. It was June, but it had rained during the day and\nthe night was raw and cold. He walked up to Piccadilly Circus in order to\nget a seat; the 'bus waited at the fountain, and when it arrived there\nseldom had more than two or three people in it. This service ran every\nquarter of an hour, and he had some time to wait. He looked idly at the\ncrowd. The public-houses were closing, and there were many people about.\nHis mind was busy with the ideas Athelny had the charming gift of\nsuggesting.\n\nSuddenly his heart stood still. He saw Mildred. He had not thought of her\nfor weeks. She was crossing over from the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and\nstopped at the shelter till a string of cabs passed by. She was watching\nher opportunity and had no eyes for anything else. She wore a large black\nstraw hat with a mass of feathers on it and a black silk dress; at that\ntime it was fashionable for women to wear trains; the road was clear, and\nMildred crossed, her skirt trailing on the ground, and walked down\nPiccadilly. Philip, his heart beating excitedly, followed her. He did not\nwish to speak to her, but he wondered where she was going at that hour; he\nwanted to get a look at her face. She walked slowly along and turned down\nAir Street and so got through into Regent Street. She walked up again\ntowards the Circus. Philip was puzzled. He could not make out what she was\ndoing. Perhaps she was waiting for somebody, and he felt a great curiosity\nto know who it was. She overtook a short man in a bowler hat, who was\nstrolling very slowly in the same direction as herself; she gave him a\nsidelong glance as she passed. She walked a few steps more till she came\nto Swan and Edgar's, then stopped and waited, facing the road. When the\nman came up she smiled. The man stared at her for a moment, turned away\nhis head, and sauntered on. Then Philip understood.\n\nHe was overwhelmed with horror. For a moment he felt such a weakness in\nhis legs that he could hardly stand; then he walked after her quickly; he\ntouched her on the arm.\n\n\"Mildred.\"\n\nShe turned round with a violent start. He thought that she reddened, but\nin the obscurity he could not see very well. For a while they stood and\nlooked at one another without speaking. At last she said:\n\n\"Fancy seeing you!\"\n\nHe did not know what to answer; he was horribly shaken; and the phrases\nthat chased one another through his brain seemed incredibly melodramatic.\n\n\"It's awful,\" he gasped, almost to himself.\n\nShe did not say anything more, she turned away from him, and looked down\nat the pavement. He felt that his face was distorted with misery.\n\n\"Isn't there anywhere we can go and talk?\"\n\n\"I don't want to talk,\" she said sullenly. \"Leave me alone, can't you?\"\n\nThe thought struck him that perhaps she was in urgent need of money and\ncould not afford to go away at that hour.\n\n\"I've got a couple of sovereigns on me if you're hard up,\" he blurted out.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean. I was just walking along here on my way back\nto my lodgings. I expected to meet one of the girls from where I work.\"\n\n\"For God's sake don't lie now,\" he said.\n\nThen he saw that she was crying, and he repeated his question.\n\n\"Can't we go and talk somewhere? Can't I come back to your rooms?\"\n\n\"No, you can't do that,\" she sobbed. \"I'm not allowed to take gentlemen in\nthere. If you like I'll meet you tomorrow.\"\n\nHe felt certain that she would not keep an appointment. He was not going\nto let her go.\n\n\"No. You must take me somewhere now.\"\n\n\"Well, there is a room I know, but they'll charge six shillings for it.\"\n\n\"I don't mind that. Where is it?\"\n\nShe gave him the address, and he called a cab. They drove to a shabby\nstreet beyond the British Museum in the neighbourhood of the Gray's Inn\nRoad, and she stopped the cab at the corner.\n\n\"They don't like you to drive up to the door,\" she said.\n\nThey were the first words either of them had spoken since getting into the\ncab. They walked a few yards and Mildred knocked three times, sharply, at\na door. Philip noticed in the fanlight a cardboard on which was an\nannouncement that apartments were to let. The door was opened quietly, and\nan elderly, tall woman let them in. She gave Philip a stare and then spoke\nto Mildred in an undertone. Mildred led Philip along a passage to a room\nat the back. It was quite dark; she asked him for a match, and lit the\ngas; there was no globe, and the gas flared shrilly. Philip saw that he\nwas in a dingy little bed-room with a suite of furniture, painted to look\nlike pine much too large for it; the lace curtains were very dirty; the\ngrate was hidden by a large paper fan. Mildred sank on the chair which\nstood by the side of the chimney-piece. Philip sat on the edge of the bed.\nHe felt ashamed. He saw now that Mildred's cheeks were thick with rouge,\nher eyebrows were blackened; but she looked thin and ill, and the red on\nher cheeks exaggerated the greenish pallor of her skin. She stared at the\npaper fan in a listless fashion. Philip could not think what to say, and\nhe had a choking in his throat as if he were going to cry. He covered his\neyes with his hands.\n\n\"My God, it is awful,\" he groaned.\n\n\"I don't know what you've got to fuss about. I should have thought you'd\nhave been rather pleased.\"\n\nPhilip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob.\n\n\"You don't think I do it because I like it, do you?\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear,\" he cried. \"I'm so sorry, I'm so awfully sorry.\"\n\n\"That'll do me a fat lot of good.\"\n\nAgain Philip found nothing to say. He was desperately afraid of saying\nanything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer.\n\n\"Where's the baby?\" he asked at last.\n\n\"I've got her with me in London. I hadn't got the money to keep her on at\nBrighton, so I had to take her. I've got a room up Highbury way. I told\nthem I was on the stage. It's a long way to have to come down to the West\nEnd every day, but it's a rare job to find anyone who'll let to ladies at\nall.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't they take you back at the shop?\"\n\n\"I couldn't get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking for\nwork. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was queer,\nand when I went back they said they didn't want me any more. You can't\nblame them either, can you? Them places, they can't afford to have girls\nthat aren't strong.\"\n\n\"You don't look very well now,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I wasn't fit to come out tonight, but I couldn't help myself, I wanted\nthe money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even\nanswered the letter.\"\n\n\"You might have written to me.\"\n\n\"I didn't like to, not after what happened, and I didn't want you to know\nI was in difficulties. I shouldn't have been surprised if you'd just told\nme I'd only got what I deserved.\"\n\n\"You don't know me very well, do you, even now?\"\n\nFor a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her account,\nand he was sick with the recollection of his pain. But it was no more than\nrecollection. When he looked at her he knew that he no longer loved her.\nHe was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be free. Watching her\ngravely, he asked himself why he had been so besotted with passion for\nher.\n\n\"You're a gentleman in every sense of the word,\" she said. \"You're the\nonly one I've ever met.\" She paused for a minute and then flushed. \"I hate\nasking you, Philip, but can you spare me anything?\"\n\n\"It's lucky I've got some money on me. I'm afraid I've only got two\npounds.\"\n\nHe gave her the sovereigns.\n\n\"I'll pay you back, Philip.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" he smiled. \"You needn't worry.\"\n\nHe had said nothing that he wanted to say. They had talked as if the whole\nthing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now, back to the\nhorror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to prevent it. She\nhad got up to take the money, and they were both standing.\n\n\"Am I keeping you?\" she asked. \"I suppose you want to be getting home.\"\n\n\"No, I'm in no hurry,\" he answered.\n\n\"I'm glad to have a chance of sitting down.\"\n\nThose words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was dreadfully\npainful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the chair. The\nsilence lasted so long that Philip in his embarrassment lit a cigarette.\n\n\"It's very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me,\nPhilip. I thought you might say I didn't know what all.\"\n\nHe saw that she was crying again. He remembered how she had come to him\nwhen Emil Miller had deserted her and how she had wept. The recollection\nof her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to render more\noverwhelming the compassion he felt now.\n\n\"If I could only get out of it!\" she moaned. \"I hate it so. I'm unfit for\nthe life, I'm not the sort of girl for that. I'd do anything to get away\nfrom it, I'd be a servant if I could. Oh, I wish I was dead.\"\n\nAnd in pity for herself she broke down now completely. She sobbed\nhysterically, and her thin body was shaken.\n\n\"Oh, you don't know what it is. Nobody knows till they've done it.\"\n\nPhilip could not bear to see her cry. He was tortured by the horror of her\nposition.\n\n\"Poor child,\" he whispered. \"Poor child.\"\n\nHe was deeply moved. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It filled him with a\nperfect ecstasy of happiness.\n\n\"Look here, if you want to get away from it, I've got an idea. I'm\nfrightfully hard up just now, I've got to be as economical as I can; but\nI've got a sort of little flat now in Kennington and I've got a spare\nroom. If you like you and the baby can come and live there. I pay a woman\nthree and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a little\ncooking for me. You could do that and your food wouldn't come to much more\nthan the money I should save on her. It doesn't cost any more to feed two\nthan one, and I don't suppose the baby eats much.\"\n\nShe stopped crying and looked at him.\n\n\"D'you mean to say that you could take me back after all that's happened?\"\n\nPhilip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say.\n\n\"I don't want you to mistake me. I'm just giving you a room which doesn't\ncost me anything and your food. I don't expect anything more from you than\nthat you should do exactly the same as the woman I have in does. Except\nfor that I don't want anything from you at all. I daresay you can cook\nwell enough for that.\"\n\nShe sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him.\n\n\"You are good to me, Philip.\"\n\n\"No, please stop where you are,\" he said hurriedly, putting out his hand\nas though to push her away.\n\nHe did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she\nshould touch him.\n\n\"I don't want to be anything more than a friend to you.\"\n\n\"You are good to me,\" she repeated. \"You are good to me.\"\n\n\"Does that mean you'll come?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I'd do anything to get away from this. You'll never regret what\nyou've done, Philip, never. When can I come, Philip?\"\n\n\"You'd better come tomorrow.\"\n\nSuddenly she burst into tears again.\n\n\"What on earth are you crying for now?\" he smiled.\n\n\"I'm so grateful to you. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you?\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right. You'd better go home now.\"\n\nHe wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five\nhe would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk home, but it\ndid not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to\nwalk on air.\n\n\n\nXCI\n\n\nNext day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told the\nwoman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more.\nMildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went\ndown to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now\nof no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had\nbeen obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. She wore\nthe same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she\nhad now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black\nwhich remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look\nvery ill. She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the\nbaby in her arms. She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but\ncommonplace things to say to one another.\n\n\"So you've got here all right.\"\n\n\"I've never lived in this part of London before.\"\n\nPhilip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died.\nPhilip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going\nback to it; and since Cronshaw's death he had remained in the little room,\nsleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make\nhis friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.\n\n\"You don't recognise her, I expect,\" said Mildred.\n\n\"I've not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.\"\n\n\"Where shall I put her? She's so heavy I can't carry her very long.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I haven't got a cradle,\" said Philip, with a nervous laugh.\n\n\"Oh, she'll sleep with me. She always does.\"\n\nMildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She\nrecognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings.\nOnly one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had\npainted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the\nchimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.\n\n\"In some ways I like it and in some ways I don't. I think you're better\nlooking than that.\"\n\n\"Things are looking up,\" laughed Philip. \"You've never told me I was\ngood-looking before.\"\n\n\"I'm not one to worry myself about a man's looks. I don't like\ngood-looking men. They're too conceited for me.\"\n\nHer eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a\nlooking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her\nlarge fringe.\n\n\"What'll the other people in the house say to my being here?\" she asked\nsuddenly.\n\n\"Oh, there's only a man and his wife living here. He's out all day, and I\nnever see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to\nthemselves. I've not spoken two words to either of them since I came.\"\n\nMildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip\ntried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair,\nsmoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child.\nHe felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with\nMildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely;\nhe discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he\nthought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not\nunderstand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again.\n\n\"I say, you needn't knock,\" he said. \"Have you made the tour of the\nmansion?\"\n\n\"It's the smallest kitchen I've ever seen.\"\n\n\"You'll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts,\" he retorted\nlightly.\n\n\"I see there's nothing in. I'd better go out and get something.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical.\"\n\n\"What shall I get for supper?\"\n\n\"You'd better get what you think you can cook,\" laughed Philip.\n\nHe gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later\nand put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing\nthe stairs.\n\n\"I say, you are anaemic,\" said Philip. \"I'll have to dose you with Blaud's\nPills.\"\n\n\"It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That's\ntasty, isn't it? And you can't eat much of it, so it's more economical\nthan butcher's meat.\"\n\nThere was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on,\nMildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.\n\n\"Why are you only laying one place?\" asked Philip. \"Aren't you going to\neat anything?\"\n\nMildred flushed.\n\n\"I thought you mightn't like me to have my meals with you.\"\n\n\"Why on earth not?\"\n\n\"Well, I'm only a servant, aren't I?\"\n\n\"Don't be an ass. How can you be so silly?\"\n\nHe smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor\nthing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He\nhesitated for an instant.\n\n\"Don't think I'm conferring any benefit on you,\" he said. \"It's simply a\nbusiness arrangement, I'm giving you board and lodging in return for your\nwork. You don't owe me anything. And there's nothing humiliating to you in\nit.\"\n\nShe did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip knew\nfrom his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon\nservice as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with\nher; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill.\nHe got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. The baby was\nawake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin's Food for it. The liver\nand bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy's sake Philip had\ngiven up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a\nbottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do Mildred good. He did\nhis best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but Mildred was subdued and\nexhausted. When they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed.\n\n\"I think you'll do well to turn in early yourself,\" said Philip. \"You look\nabsolute done up.\"\n\n\"I think I will after I've washed up.\"\n\nPhilip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody\nmoving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him.\nMildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as\nshe washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of\nher that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to\ndo, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler's\nMedicine, which had recently taken the place in the students' favour of\nTaylor's work, for many years the text-book most in use. Presently Mildred\ncame in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a casual glance, but\ndid not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. He\nfeared that Mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of\nhimself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her.\n\n\"By the way, I've got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at a\nquarter past eight. Can you manage that?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the\neight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning.\"\n\n\"I hope you'll find your room comfortable. You'll be a different woman\ntomorrow after a long night in bed.\"\n\n\"I suppose you work till late?\"\n\n\"I generally work till about eleven or half-past.\"\n\n\"I'll say good-night then.\"\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\nThe table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her. She\nshut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in\na little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in.\n\n\n\nXCII\n\n\nThe following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual hurried through his\nbreakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture at nine. He had only time\nto exchange a few words with Mildred. When he came back in the evening he\nfound her seated at the window, darning his socks.\n\n\"I say, you are industrious,\" he smiled. \"What have you been doing with\nyourself all day?\"\n\n\"Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I took baby out for a\nlittle.\"\n\nShe was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform\nwhen she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in\nit than in the silk of the day before. The baby was sitting on the floor.\nShe looked up at Philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh\nwhen he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes. The\nafternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light.\n\n\"It's rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. A woman\nand a baby make very good decoration in a room.\"\n\nHe had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a bottle of Blaud's Pills,\nHe gave them to Mildred and told her she must take them after each meal.\nIt was a remedy she was used to, for she had taken it off and on ever\nsince she was sixteen.\n\n\"I'm sure Lawson would love that green skin of yours,\" said Philip. \"He'd\nsay it was so paintable, but I'm terribly matter of fact nowadays, and I\nshan't be happy till you're as pink and white as a milkmaid.\"\n\n\"I feel better already.\"\n\nAfter a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his\nhat. It was on Tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in Beak\nStreet, and he was glad that this day came so soon after Mildred's\narrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear.\n\n\"Are you going out?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall see you tomorrow.\nGood-night.\"\n\nPhilip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. Macalister, the\nphilosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any\nsubject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and\nthough he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit\nto meet on that one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor\ncreature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically\nabout Hayward's literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague\nsuggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but\nthe punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the\nevening they generally composed their differences and thought each other\ncapital fellows. This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson\nalso; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in\nLondon and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent\nterms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the\nStock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. It\nwas a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money:\nhe had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter's career when he was\nnoticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic\nladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it\nadvertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of\npatronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid\nphilistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife.\nLawson was brimming over with satisfaction.\n\n\"It's the most ripping way of making money that I've ever struck,\" he\ncried. \"I didn't have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence.\"\n\n\"You lost something by not being here last Tuesday, young man,\" said\nMacalister to Philip.\n\n\"My God, why didn't you write to me?\" said Philip. \"If you only knew how\nuseful a hundred pounds would be to me.\"\n\n\"Oh, there wasn't time for that. One has to be on the spot. I heard of a\ngood thing last Tuesday, and I asked these fellows if they'd like to have\na flutter, I bought them a thousand shares on Wednesday morning, and there\nwas a rise in the afternoon so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds\nfor each of them and a couple of hundred for myself.\"\n\nPhilip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the last mortgage in which\nhis small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds\nleft. He was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. He\nhad still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and\nthen he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not\nexpect to earn anything for three years at least. With the most rigid\neconomy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was\nvery little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn\nmoney or found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make\nall the difference to him.\n\n\"Oh, well, it doesn't matter,\" said Macalister. \"Something is sure to turn\nup soon. There'll be a boom in South Africans again one of these days, and\nthen I'll see what I can do for you.\"\n\nMacalister was in the Kaffir market and often told them stories of the\nsudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two\nback.\n\n\"Well, don't forget next time.\"\n\nThey sat on talking till nearly midnight, and Philip, who lived furthest\noff, was the first to go. If he did not catch the last tram he had to\nwalk, and that made him very late. As it was he did not reach home till\nnearly half past twelve. When he got upstairs he was surprised to find\nMildred still sitting in his arm-chair.\n\n\"Why on earth aren't you in bed?\" he cried.\n\n\"I wasn't sleepy.\"\n\n\"You ought to go to bed all the same. It would rest you.\"\n\nShe did not move. He noticed that since supper she had changed into her\nblack silk dress.\n\n\"I thought I'd rather wait up for you in case you wanted anything.\"\n\n She looked at him, and the shadow of a smile played upon her thin pale\nlips. Philip was not sure whether he understood or not. He was slightly\nembarrassed, but assumed a cheerful, matter-of-fact air.\n\n\"It's very nice of you, but it's very naughty also. Run off to bed as fast\nas you can, or you won't be able to get up tomorrow morning.\"\n\n\"I don't feel like going to bed.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" he said coldly.\n\nShe got up, a little sulkily, and went into her room. He smiled when he\nheard her lock the door loudly.\n\nThe next few days passed without incident. Mildred settled down in her new\nsurroundings. When Philip hurried off after breakfast she had the whole\nmorning to do the housework. They ate very simply, but she liked to take\na long time to buy the few things they needed; she could not be bothered\nto cook anything for her dinner, but made herself some cocoa and ate bread\nand butter; then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in\nspent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. She was tired out, and it\nsuited her to do so little. She made friends with Philip's forbidding\nlandlady over the rent, which he left with Mildred to pay, and within a\nweek was able to tell him more about his neighbours than he had learned in\na year.\n\n\"She's a very nice woman,\" said Mildred. \"Quite the lady. I told her we\nwas married.\"\n\n\"D'you think that was necessary?\"\n\n\"Well, I had to tell her something. It looks so funny me being here and\nnot married to you. I didn't know what she'd think of me.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose she believed you for a moment.\"\n\n\"That she did, I lay. I told her we'd been married two years--I had to say\nthat, you know, because of baby--only your people wouldn't hear of it,\nbecause you was only a student\"--she pronounced it stoodent--\"and so we\nhad to keep it a secret, but they'd given way now and we were all going\ndown to stay with them in the summer.\"\n\n\"You're a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story,\" said Philip.\n\nHe was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this passion for telling\nfibs. In the last two years she had learnt nothing. But he shrugged his\nshoulders.\n\n\"When all's said and done,\" he reflected, \"she hasn't had much chance.\"\n\nIt was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of South\nLondon seemed to have poured out into the streets. There was that\nrestlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in\nthe weather calls him into the open. After Mildred had cleared away the\nsupper she went and stood at the window. The street noises came up to\nthem, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of\na barrel-organ in the distance.\n\n\"I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?\" she asked him, with a wistful\nexpression.\n\n\"I ought, but I don't know that I must. Why, d'you want me to do anything\nelse?\"\n\n\"I'd like to go out for a bit. Couldn't we take a ride on the top of a\ntram?\"\n\n\"If you like.\"\n\n\"I'll just go and put on my hat,\" she said joyfully.\n\nThe night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. The baby was asleep\nand could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at\nnight when she went out; it never woke. She was in high spirits when she\ncame back with her hat on. She had taken the opportunity to put on a\nlittle rouge. Philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint\ncolour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and\nreproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her. She\nlaughed when she got out into the air. The first tram they saw was going\ntowards Westminster Bridge and they got on it. Philip smoked his pipe, and\nthey looked at the crowded street. The shops were open, gaily lit, and\npeople were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed a\nmusic-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:\n\n\"Oh, Philip, do let's go there. I haven't been to a music-hall for\nmonths.\"\n\n\"We can't afford stalls, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind, I shall be quite happy in the gallery.\"\n\nThey got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors.\nThey got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery,\nand the night was so fine that there was plenty of room. Mildred's eyes\nglistened. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was a simple-mindedness\nin her which touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him. Certain things in\nher still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which\nwas very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he\nhad blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault\nif he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give.\nUnder different circumstances she might have been a charming girl. She was\nextraordinarily unfit for the battle of life. As he watched her now in\nprofile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he\nthought she looked strangely virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion\nfor her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had\ncaused him. The smoky atmosphere made Philip's eyes ache, but when he\nsuggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to\nstay till the end. He smiled and consented. She took his hand and held it\nfor the rest of the performance. When they streamed out with the audience\ninto the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the\nWestminster Bridge Road, looking at the people.\n\n\"I've not had such a good time as this for months,\" she said.\n\nPhilip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had\ncarried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into his flat.\nIt was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. At last she grew tired\nand they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got\ndown and turned into their own street there was no one about. Mildred\nslipped her arm through his.\n\n\"It's just like old times, Phil,\" she said.\n\nShe had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called him;\nand even now it gave him a curious pang. He remembered how much he had\nwanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought quite\nseriously of committing suicide. It all seemed very long ago. He smiled at\nhis past self. Now he felt nothing for Mildred but infinite pity. They\nreached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room Philip lit the\ngas.\n\n\"Is the baby all right?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'll just go in and see.\"\n\nWhen she came back it was to say that it had not stirred since she left\nit. It was a wonderful child. Philip held out his hand.\n\n\"Well, good-night.\"\n\n\"D'you want to go to bed already?\"\n\n\"It's nearly one. I'm not used to late hours these days,\" said Philip.\n\nShe took his hand and holding it looked into his eyes with a little smile.\n\n\"Phil, the other night in that room, when you asked me to come and stay\nhere, I didn't mean what you thought I meant, when you said you didn't\nwant me to be anything to you except just to cook and that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"Didn't you?\" answered Philip, withdrawing his hand. \"I did.\"\n\n\"Don't be such an old silly,\" she laughed.\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"I meant it quite seriously. I shouldn't have asked you to stay here on\nany other condition.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I feel I couldn't. I can't explain it, but it would spoil it all.\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"Oh, very well, it's just as you choose. I'm not one to go down on my\nhands and knees for that, and chance it.\"\n\nShe went out, slamming the door behind her.\n\n\n\nXCIII\n\n\nNext morning Mildred was sulky and taciturn. She remained in her room till\nit was time to get the dinner ready. She was a bad cook and could do\nlittle more than chops and steaks; and she did not know how to use up odds\nand ends, so that Philip was obliged to spend more money than he had\nexpected. When she served up she sat down opposite Philip, but would eat\nnothing; he remarked on it; she said she had a bad headache and was not\nhungry. He was glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest of the day;\nthe Athelnys were cheerful and friendly. It was a delightful and an\nunexpected thing to realise that everyone in that household looked forward\nwith pleasure to his visit. Mildred had gone to bed when he came back, but\nnext day she was still silent. At supper she sat with a haughty expression\non her face and a little frown between her eyes. It made Philip impatient,\nbut he told himself that he must be considerate to her; he was bound to\nmake allowance.\n\n\"You're very silent,\" he said, with a pleasant smile.\n\n\"I'm paid to cook and clean, I didn't know I was expected to talk as\nwell.\"\n\nHe thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were going to live\ntogether he must do all he could to make things go easily.\n\n\"I'm afraid you're cross with me about the other night,\" he said.\n\nIt was an awkward thing to speak about, but apparently it was necessary to\ndiscuss it.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" she answered.\n\n\"Please don't be angry with me. I should never have asked you to come and\nlive here if I'd not meant our relations to be merely friendly. I\nsuggested it because I thought you wanted a home and you would have a\nchance of looking about for something to do.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't think I care.\"\n\n\"I don't for a moment,\" he hastened to say. \"You mustn't think I'm\nungrateful. I realise that you only proposed it for my sake. It's just a\nfeeling I have, and I can't help it, it would make the whole thing ugly\nand horrid.\"\n\n\"You are funny,\" she said, looking at him curiously. \"I can't make you\nout.\"\n\nShe was not angry with him now, but puzzled; she had no idea what he\nmeant: she accepted the situation, she had indeed a vague feeling that he\nwas behaving in a very noble fashion and that she ought to admire it; but\nalso she felt inclined to laugh at him and perhaps even to despise him a\nlittle.\n\n\"He's a rum customer,\" she thought.\n\nLife went smoothly enough with them. Philip spent all day at the hospital\nand worked at home in the evening except when he went to the Athelnys' or\nto the tavern in Beak Street. Once the physician for whom he clerked asked\nhim to a solemn dinner, and two or three times he went to parties given by\nfellow-students. Mildred accepted the monotony of her life. If she minded\nthat Philip left her sometimes by herself in the evening she never\nmentioned it. Occasionally he took her to a music hall. He carried out his\nintention that the only tie between them should be the domestic service\nshe did in return for board and lodging. She had made up her mind that it\nwas no use trying to get work that summer, and with Philip's approval\ndetermined to stay where she was till the autumn. She thought it would be\neasy to get something to do then.\n\n\"As far as I'm concerned you can stay on here when you've got a job if\nit's convenient. The room's there, and the woman who did for me before can\ncome in to look after the baby.\"\n\nHe grew very much attached to Mildred's child. He had a naturally\naffectionate disposition, which had had little opportunity to display\nitself. Mildred was not unkind to the little girl. She looked after her\nvery well and once when she had a bad cold proved herself a devoted nurse;\nbut the child bored her, and she spoke to her sharply when she bothered;\nshe was fond of her, but had not the maternal passion which might have\ninduced her to forget herself. Mildred had no demonstrativeness, and she\nfound the manifestations of affection ridiculous. When Philip sat with the\nbaby on his knees, playing with it and kissing it, she laughed at him.\n\n\"You couldn't make more fuss of her if you was her father,\" she said.\n\"You're perfectly silly with the child.\"\n\nPhilip flushed, for he hated to be laughed at. It was absurd to be so\ndevoted to another man's baby, and he was a little ashamed of the\noverflowing of his heart. But the child, feeling Philip's attachment,\nwould put her face against his or nestle in his arms.\n\n\"It's all very fine for you,\" said Mildred. \"You don't have any of the\ndisagreeable part of it. How would you like being kept awake for an hour\nin the middle of the night because her ladyship wouldn't go to sleep?\"\n\nPhilip remembered all sorts of things of his childhood which he thought he\nhad long forgotten. He took hold of the baby's toes.\n\n\"This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.\"\n\nWhen he came home in the evening and entered the sitting-room his first\nglance was for the baby sprawling on the floor, and it gave him a little\nthrill of delight to hear the child's crow of pleasure at seeing him.\nMildred taught her to call him daddy, and when the child did this for the\nfirst time of her own accord, laughed immoderately.\n\n\"I wonder if you're that stuck on baby because she's mine,\" asked Mildred,\n\"or if you'd be the same with anybody's baby.\"\n\n\"I've never known anybody else's baby, so I can't say,\" said Philip.\n\nTowards the end of his second term as in-patients' clerk a piece of good\nfortune befell Philip. It was the middle of July. He went one Tuesday\nevening to the tavern in Beak Street and found nobody there but\nMacalister. They sat together, chatting about their absent friends, and\nafter a while Macalister said to him:\n\n\"Oh, by the way, I heard of a rather good thing today, New Kleinfonteins;\nit's a gold mine in Rhodesia. If you'd like to have a flutter you might\nmake a bit.\"\n\nPhilip had been waiting anxiously for such an opportunity, but now that it\ncame he hesitated. He was desperately afraid of losing money. He had\nlittle of the gambler's spirit.\n\n\"I'd love to, but I don't know if I dare risk it. How much could I lose if\nthings went wrong?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't have spoken of it, only you seemed so keen about it,\"\nMacalister answered coldly.\n\nPhilip felt that Macalister looked upon him as rather a donkey.\n\n\"I'm awfully keen on making a bit,\" he laughed.\n\n\"You can't make money unless you're prepared to risk money.\"\n\nMacalister began to talk of other things and Philip, while he was\nanswering him, kept thinking that if the venture turned out well the\nstockbroker would be very facetious at his expense next time they met.\nMacalister had a sarcastic tongue.\n\n\"I think I will have a flutter if you don't mind,\" said Philip anxiously.\n\n\"All right. I'll buy you two hundred and fifty shares and if I see a\nhalf-crown rise I'll sell them at once.\"\n\nPhilip quickly reckoned out how much that would amount to, and his mouth\nwatered; thirty pounds would be a godsend just then, and he thought the\nfates owed him something. He told Mildred what he had done when he saw her\nat breakfast next morning. She thought him very silly.\n\n\"I never knew anyone who made money on the Stock Exchange,\" she said.\n\"That's what Emil always said, you can't expect to make money on the Stock\nExchange, he said.\"\n\nPhilip bought an evening paper on his way home and turned at once to the\nmoney columns. He knew nothing about these things and had difficulty in\nfinding the stock which Macalister had spoken of. He saw they had advanced\na quarter. His heart leaped, and then he felt sick with apprehension in\ncase Macalister had forgotten or for some reason had not bought.\nMacalister had promised to telegraph. Philip could not wait to take a tram\nhome. He jumped into a cab. It was an unwonted extravagance.\n\n\"Is there a telegram for me?\" he said, as he burst in.\n\n\"No,\" said Mildred.\n\nHis face fell, and in bitter disappointment he sank heavily into a chair.\n\n\"Then he didn't buy them for me after all. Curse him,\" he added violently.\n\"What cruel luck! And I've been thinking all day of what I'd do with the\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Why, what were you going to do?\" she asked.\n\n\"What's the good of thinking about that now? Oh, I wanted the money so\nbadly.\"\n\nShe gave a laugh and handed him a telegram.\n\n\"I was only having a joke with you. I opened it.\"\n\nHe tore it out of her hands. Macalister had bought him two hundred and\nfifty shares and sold them at the half-crown profit he had suggested. The\ncommission note was to follow next day. For one moment Philip was furious\nwith Mildred for her cruel jest, but then he could only think of his joy.\n\n\"It makes such a difference to me,\" he cried. \"I'll stand you a new dress\nif you like.\"\n\n\"I want it badly enough,\" she answered.\n\n\"I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to be operated upon at the\nend of July.\"\n\n\"Why, have you got something the matter with you?\" she interrupted.\n\nIt struck her that an illness she did not know might explain what had so\nmuch puzzled her. He flushed, for he hated to refer to his deformity.\n\n\"No, but they think they can do something to my foot. I couldn't spare the\ntime before, but now it doesn't matter so much. I shall start my dressing\nin October instead of next month. I shall only be in hospital a few weeks\nand then we can go away to the seaside for the rest of the summer. It'll\ndo us all good, you and the baby and me.\"\n\n\"Oh, let's go to Brighton, Philip, I like Brighton, you get such a nice\nclass of people there.\" Philip had vaguely thought of some little fishing\nvillage in Cornwall, but as she spoke it occurred to him that Mildred\nwould be bored to death there.\n\n\"I don't mind where we go as long as I get the sea.\"\n\nHe did not know why, but he had suddenly an irresistible longing for the\nsea. He wanted to bathe, and he thought with delight of splashing about in\nthe salt water. He was a good swimmer, and nothing exhilarated him like a\nrough sea.\n\n\"I say, it will be jolly,\" he cried.\n\n\"It'll be like a honeymoon, won't it?\" she said. \"How much can I have for\nmy new dress, Phil?\"\n\n\n\nXCIV\n\n\nPhilip asked Mr. Jacobs, the assistant-surgeon for whom he had dressed, to\ndo the operation. Jacobs accepted with pleasure, since he was interested\njust then in neglected talipes and was getting together materials for a\npaper. He warned Philip that he could not make his foot like the other,\nbut he thought he could do a good deal; and though he would always limp he\nwould be able to wear a boot less unsightly than that which he had been\naccustomed to. Philip remembered how he had prayed to a God who was able\nto remove mountains for him who had faith, and he smiled bitterly.\n\n\"I don't expect a miracle,\" he answered.\n\n\"I think you're wise to let me try what I can do. You'll find a club-foot\nrather a handicap in practice. The layman is full of fads, and he doesn't\nlike his doctor to have anything the matter with him.\"\n\nPhilip went into a 'small ward', which was a room on the landing, outside\neach ward, reserved for special cases. He remained there a month, for the\nsurgeon would not let him go till he could walk; and, bearing the\noperation very well, he had a pleasant enough time. Lawson and Athelny\ncame to see him, and one day Mrs. Athelny brought two of her children;\nstudents whom he knew looked in now and again to have a chat; Mildred came\ntwice a week. Everyone was very kind to him, and Philip, always surprised\nwhen anyone took trouble with him, was touched and grateful. He enjoyed\nthe relief from care; he need not worry there about the future, neither\nwhether his money would last out nor whether he would pass his final\nexaminations; and he could read to his heart's content. He had not been\nable to read much of late, since Mildred disturbed him: she would make an\naimless remark when he was trying to concentrate his attention, and would\nnot be satisfied unless he answered; whenever he was comfortably settled\ndown with a book she would want something done and would come to him with\na cork she could not draw or a hammer to drive in a nail.\n\nThey settled to go to Brighton in August. Philip wanted to take lodgings,\nbut Mildred said that she would have to do housekeeping, and it would only\nbe a holiday for her if they went to a boarding-house.\n\n\"I have to see about the food every day at home, I get that sick of it I\nwant a thorough change.\"\n\nPhilip agreed, and it happened that Mildred knew of a boarding-house at\nKemp Town where they would not be charged more than twenty-five shillings\na week each. She arranged with Philip to write about rooms, but when he\ngot back to Kennington he found that she had done nothing. He was\nirritated.\n\n\"I shouldn't have thought you had so much to do as all that,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, I can't think of everything. It's not my fault if I forget, is it?\"\n\nPhilip was so anxious to get to the sea that he would not wait to\ncommunicate with the mistress of the boarding-house.\n\n\"We'll leave the luggage at the station and go to the house and see if\nthey've got rooms, and if they have we can just send an outside porter for\nour traps.\"\n\n\"You can please yourself,\" said Mildred stiffly.\n\nShe did not like being reproached, and, retiring huffily into a haughty\nsilence, she sat by listlessly while Philip made the preparations for\ntheir departure. The little flat was hot and stuffy under the August sun,\nand from the road beat up a malodorous sultriness. As he lay in his bed in\nthe small ward with its red, distempered walls he had longed for fresh air\nand the splashing of the sea against his breast. He felt he would go mad\nif he had to spend another night in London. Mildred recovered her good\ntemper when she saw the streets of Brighton crowded with people making\nholiday, and they were both in high spirits as they drove out to Kemp\nTown. Philip stroked the baby's cheek.\n\n\"We shall get a very different colour into them when we've been down here\na few days,\" he said, smiling.\n\nThey arrived at the boarding-house and dismissed the cab. An untidy maid\nopened the door and, when Philip asked if they had rooms, said she would\ninquire. She fetched her mistress. A middle-aged woman, stout and\nbusiness-like, came downstairs, gave them the scrutinising glance of her\nprofession, and asked what accommodation they required.\n\n\"Two single rooms, and if you've got such a thing we'd rather like a cot\nin one of them.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I haven't got that. I've got one nice large double room, and\nI could let you have a cot.\"\n\n\"I don't think that would do,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I could give you another room next week. Brighton's very full just now,\nand people have to take what they can get.\"\n\n\"If it were only for a few days, Philip, I think we might be able to\nmanage,\" said Mildred.\n\n\"I think two rooms would be more convenient. Can you recommend any other\nplace where they take boarders?\"\n\n\"I can, but I don't suppose they'd have room any more than I have.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me the address.\"\n\nThe house the stout woman suggested was in the next street, and they\nwalked towards it. Philip could walk quite well, though he had to lean on\na stick, and he was rather weak. Mildred carried the baby. They went for\na little in silence, and then he saw she was crying. It annoyed him, and\nhe took no notice, but she forced his attention.\n\n\"Lend me a hanky, will you? I can't get at mine with baby,\" she said in a\nvoice strangled with sobs, turning her head away from him.\n\nHe gave her his handkerchief, but said nothing. She dried her eyes, and as\nhe did not speak, went on.\n\n\"I might be poisonous.\"\n\n\"Please don't make a scene in the street,\" he said.\n\n\"It'll look so funny insisting on separate rooms like that. What'll they\nthink of us?\"\n\n\"If they knew the circumstances I imagine they'd think us surprisingly\nmoral,\" said Philip.\n\nShe gave him a sidelong glance.\n\n\"You're not going to give it away that we're not married?\" she asked\nquickly.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why won't you live with me as if we were married then?\"\n\n\"My dear, I can't explain. I don't want to humiliate you, but I simply\ncan't. I daresay it's very silly and unreasonable, but it's stronger than\nI am. I loved you so much that now...\" he broke off. \"After all, there's\nno accounting for that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"A fat lot you must have loved me!\" she exclaimed.\n\nThe boarding-house to which they had been directed was kept by a bustling\nmaiden lady, with shrewd eyes and voluble speech. They could have one\ndouble room for twenty-five shillings a week each, and five shillings\nextra for the baby, or they could have two single rooms for a pound a week\nmore.\n\n\"I have to charge that much more,\" the woman explained apologetically,\n\"because if I'm pushed to it I can put two beds even in the single rooms.\"\n\n\"I daresay that won't ruin us. What do you think, Mildred?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind. Anything's good enough for me,\" she answered.\n\nPhilip passed off her sulky reply with a laugh, and, the landlady having\narranged to send for their luggage, they sat down to rest themselves.\nPhilip's foot was hurting him a little, and he was glad to put it up on a\nchair.\n\n\"I suppose you don't mind my sitting in the same room with you,\" said\nMildred aggressively.\n\n\"Don't let's quarrel, Mildred,\" he said gently.\n\n\"I didn't know you was so well off you could afford to throw away a pound\na week.\"\n\n\"Don't be angry with me. I assure you it's the only way we can live\ntogether at all.\"\n\n\"I suppose you despise me, that's it.\"\n\n\"Of course I don't. Why should I?\"\n\n\"It's so unnatural.\"\n\n\"Is it? You're not in love with me, are you?\"\n\n\"Me? Who d'you take me for?\"\n\n\"It's not as if you were a very passionate woman, you're not that.\"\n\n\"It's so humiliating,\" she said sulkily.\n\n\"Oh, I wouldn't fuss about that if I were you.\"\n\nThere were about a dozen people in the boarding-house. They ate in a\nnarrow, dark room at a long table, at the head of which the landlady sat\nand carved. The food was bad. The landlady called it French cooking, by\nwhich she meant that the poor quality of the materials was disguised by\nill-made sauces: plaice masqueraded as sole and New Zealand mutton as\nlamb. The kitchen was small and inconvenient, so that everything was\nserved up lukewarm. The people were dull and pretentious; old ladies with\nelderly maiden daughters; funny old bachelors with mincing ways;\npale-faced, middle-aged clerks with wives, who talked of their married\ndaughters and their sons who were in a very good position in the Colonies.\nAt table they discussed Miss Corelli's latest novel; some of them liked\nLord Leighton better than Mr. Alma-Tadema, and some of them liked Mr.\nAlma-Tadema better than Lord Leighton. Mildred soon told the ladies of her\nromantic marriage with Philip; and he found himself an object of interest\nbecause his family, county people in a very good position, had cut him off\nwith a shilling because he married while he was only a stoodent; and\nMildred's father, who had a large place down Devonshire way, wouldn't do\nanything for them because she had married Philip. That was why they had\ncome to a boarding-house and had not a nurse for the baby; but they had to\nhave two rooms because they were both used to a good deal of accommodation\nand they didn't care to be cramped. The other visitors also had\nexplanations of their presence: one of the single gentlemen generally went\nto the Metropole for his holiday, but he liked cheerful company and you\ncouldn't get that at one of those expensive hotels; and the old lady with\nthe middle-aged daughter was having her beautiful house in London done up\nand she said to her daughter: \"Gwennie, my dear, we must have a cheap\nholiday this year,\" and so they had come there, though of course it wasn't\nat all the kind of thing they were used to. Mildred found them all very\nsuperior, and she hated a lot of common, rough people. She liked gentlemen\nto be gentlemen in every sense of the word.\n\n\"When people are gentlemen and ladies,\" she said, \"I like them to be\ngentlemen and ladies.\"\n\nThe remark seemed cryptic to Philip, but when he heard her say it two or\nthree times to different persons, and found that it aroused hearty\nagreement, he came to the conclusion that it was only obscure to his own\nintelligence. It was the first time that Philip and Mildred had been\nthrown entirely together. In London he did not see her all day, and when\nhe came home the household affairs, the baby, the neighbours, gave them\nsomething to talk about till he settled down to work. Now he spent the\nwhole day with her. After breakfast they went down to the beach; the\nmorning went easily enough with a bathe and a stroll along the front; the\nevening, which they spent on the pier, having put the baby to bed, was\ntolerable, for there was music to listen to and a constant stream of\npeople to look at; (Philip amused himself by imagining who they were and\nweaving little stories about them; he had got into the habit of answering\nMildred's remarks with his mouth only so that his thoughts remained\nundisturbed;) but the afternoons were long and dreary. They sat on the\nbeach. Mildred said they must get all the benefit they could out of Doctor\nBrighton, and he could not read because Mildred made observations\nfrequently about things in general. If he paid no attention she\ncomplained.\n\n\"Oh, leave that silly old book alone. It can't be good for you always\nreading. You'll addle your brain, that's what you'll do, Philip.\"\n\n\"Oh, rot!\" he answered.\n\n\"Besides, it's so unsociable.\"\n\nHe discovered that it was difficult to talk to her. She had not even the\npower of attending to what she was herself saying, so that a dog running\nin front of her or the passing of a man in a loud blazer would call forth\na remark and then she would forget what she had been speaking of. She had\na bad memory for names, and it irritated her not to be able to think of\nthem, so that she would pause in the middle of some story to rack her\nbrains. Sometimes she had to give it up, but it often occurred to her\nafterwards, and when Philip was talking of something she would interrupt\nhim.\n\n\"Collins, that was it. I knew it would come back to me some time. Collins,\nthat's the name I couldn't remember.\"\n\nIt exasperated him because it showed that she was not listening to\nanything he said, and yet, if he was silent, she reproached him for\nsulkiness. Her mind was of an order that could not deal for five minutes\nwith the abstract, and when Philip gave way to his taste for generalising\nshe very quickly showed that she was bored. Mildred dreamt a great deal,\nand she had an accurate memory for her dreams, which she would relate\nevery day with prolixity.\n\nOne morning he received a long letter from Thorpe Athelny. He was taking\nhis holiday in the theatrical way, in which there was much sound sense,\nwhich characterised him. He had done the same thing for ten years. He took\nhis whole family to a hop-field in Kent, not far from Mrs. Athelny's home,\nand they spent three weeks hopping. It kept them in the open air, earned\nthem money, much to Mrs. Athelny's satisfaction, and renewed their contact\nwith mother earth. It was upon this that Athelny laid stress. The sojourn\nin the fields gave them a new strength; it was like a magic ceremony, by\nwhich they renewed their youth and the power of their limbs and the\nsweetness of the spirit: Philip had heard him say many fantastic,\nrhetorical, and picturesque things on the subject. Now Athelny invited him\nto come over for a day, he had certain meditations on Shakespeare and the\nmusical glasses which he desired to impart, and the children were\nclamouring for a sight of Uncle Philip. Philip read the letter again in\nthe afternoon when he was sitting with Mildred on the beach. He thought of\nMrs. Athelny, cheerful mother of many children, with her kindly\nhospitality and her good humour; of Sally, grave for her years, with funny\nlittle maternal ways and an air of authority, with her long plait of fair\nhair and her broad forehead; and then in a bunch of all the others, merry,\nboisterous, healthy, and handsome. His heart went out to them. There was\none quality which they had that he did not remember to have noticed in\npeople before, and that was goodness. It had not occurred to him till now,\nbut it was evidently the beauty of their goodness which attracted him. In\ntheory he did not believe in it: if morality were no more than a matter of\nconvenience good and evil had no meaning. He did not like to be illogical,\nbut here was simple goodness, natural and without effort, and he thought\nit beautiful. Meditating, he slowly tore the letter into little pieces; he\ndid not see how he could go without Mildred, and he did not want to go\nwith her.\n\nIt was very hot, the sky was cloudless, and they had been driven to a\nshady corner. The baby was gravely playing with stones on the beach, and\nnow and then she crawled up to Philip and gave him one to hold, then took\nit away again and placed it carefully down. She was playing a mysterious\nand complicated game known only to herself. Mildred was asleep. She lay\nwith her head thrown back and her mouth slightly open; her legs were\nstretched out, and her boots protruded from her petticoats in a grotesque\nfashion. His eyes had been resting on her vaguely, but now he looked at\nher with peculiar attention. He remembered how passionately he had loved\nher, and he wondered why now he was entirely indifferent to her. The\nchange in him filled him with dull pain. It seemed to him that all he had\nsuffered had been sheer waste. The touch of her hand had filled him with\necstasy; he had desired to enter into her soul so that he could share\nevery thought with her and every feeling; he had suffered acutely because,\nwhen silence had fallen between them, a remark of hers showed how far\ntheir thoughts had travelled apart, and he had rebelled against the\nunsurmountable wall which seemed to divide every personality from every\nother. He found it strangely tragic that he had loved her so madly and now\nloved her not at all. Sometimes he hated her. She was incapable of\nlearning, and the experience of life had taught her nothing. She was as\nunmannerly as she had always been. It revolted Philip to hear the\ninsolence with which she treated the hard-worked servant at the\nboarding-house.\n\nPresently he considered his own plans. At the end of his fourth year he\nwould be able to take his examination in midwifery, and a year more would\nsee him qualified. Then he might manage a journey to Spain. He wanted to\nsee the pictures which he knew only from photographs; he felt deeply that\nEl Greco held a secret of peculiar moment to him; and he fancied that in\nToledo he would surely find it out. He did not wish to do things grandly,\nand on a hundred pounds he might live for six months in Spain: if\nMacalister put him on to another good thing he could make that easily. His\nheart warmed at the thought of those old beautiful cities, and the tawny\nplains of Castile. He was convinced that more might be got out of life\nthan offered itself at present, and he thought that in Spain he could live\nwith greater intensity: it might be possible to practise in one of those\nold cities, there were a good many foreigners, passing or resident, and he\nshould be able to pick up a living. But that would be much later; first he\nmust get one or two hospital appointments; they gave experience and made\nit easy to get jobs afterwards. He wished to get a berth as ship's doctor\non one of the large tramps that took things leisurely enough for a man to\nsee something of the places at which they stopped. He wanted to go to the\nEast; and his fancy was rich with pictures of Bangkok and Shanghai, and\nthe ports of Japan: he pictured to himself palm-trees and skies blue and\nhot, dark-skinned people, pagodas; the scents of the Orient intoxicated\nhis nostrils. His heart beat  with passionate desire for the beauty and the\nstrangeness of the world.\n\nMildred awoke.\n\n\"I do believe I've been asleep,\" she said. \"Now then, you naughty girl,\nwhat have you been doing to yourself? Her dress was clean yesterday and\njust look at it now, Philip.\"\n\n\n\nXCV\n\n\nWhen they returned to London Philip began his dressing in the surgical\nwards. He was not so much interested in surgery as in medicine, which, a\nmore empirical science, offered greater scope to the imagination. The work\nwas a little harder than the corresponding work on the medical side. There\nwas a lecture from nine till ten, when he went into the wards; there\nwounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out, bandages renewed: Philip\nprided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him to\nwring a word of approval from a nurse. On certain afternoons in the week\nthere were operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a white\njacket, ready to hand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or to\nsponge the blood away so that he could see what he was about. When some\nrare operation was to be performed the theatre would fill up, but\ngenerally there were not more than half a dozen students present, and then\nthe proceedings had a cosiness which Philip enjoyed. At that time the\nworld at large seemed to have a passion for appendicitis, and a good many\ncases came to the operating theatre for this complaint: the surgeon for\nwhom Philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with a colleague as to which\ncould remove an appendix in the shortest time and with the smallest\nincision.\n\nIn due course Philip was put on accident duty. The dressers took this in\nturn; it lasted three days, during which they lived in hospital and ate\ntheir meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor near\nthe casualty ward, with a bed that shut up during the day into a cupboard.\nThe dresser on duty had to be at hand day and night to see to any casualty\nthat came in. You were on the move all the time, and not more than an hour\nor two passed during the night without the clanging of the bell just above\nyour head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. Saturday night was\nof course the busiest time and the closing of the public-houses the\nbusiest hour. Men would be brought in by the police dead drunk and it\nwould be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, rather the worse\nfor liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or a\nbleeding nose which their husbands had given them: some would vow to have\nthe law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it had been an\naccident. What the dresser could manage himself he did, but if there was\nanything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did this with care,\nsince the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down five\nflights of stairs for nothing. The cases ranged from a cut finger to a cut\nthroat. Boys came in with hands mangled by some machine, men were brought\nwho had been knocked down by a cab, and children who had broken a limb\nwhile playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by the\npolice: Philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed man with a great gash from ear to\near, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards in charge of a constable,\nsilent, angry because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of the\nfact that he would try again to kill himself as soon as he was released.\nThe wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemma\nwhen patients were brought in by the police: if they were sent on to the\nstation and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and it\nwas very difficult sometimes to tell if a man was dying or drunk. Philip\ndid not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have the\nbother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty ward\ntalking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse. She was a\ngray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in the\ncasualty department for twenty years. She liked the work because she was\nher own mistress and had no sister to bother her. Her movements were slow,\nbut she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency. The\ndressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength.\nShe had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her: she\nalways called them Mr. Brown; and when they expostulated and told her\ntheir real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them Mr. Brown. It\ninterested Philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its two\nhorse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. She had long\nceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they were\ndrunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. She took the vice and misery and\ncruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or\nblame in human actions: she accepted. She had a certain grim humour.\n\n\"I remember one suicide,\" she said to Philip, \"who threw himself into the\nThames. They fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later he\ndeveloped typhoid fever from swallowing Thames water.\"\n\n\"Did he die?\"\n\n\"Yes, he did all right. I could never make up my mind if it was suicide or\nnot.... They're a funny lot, suicides. I remember one man who couldn't get\nany work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a\nrevolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all\nright. And then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his face\nblow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn't such a bad\nplace after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. Thing I've always\nnoticed, people don't commit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that's\njust a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven't got\nany money. I wonder why that is.\"\n\n\"I suppose money's more important than love,\" suggested Philip.\n\nMoney was in any case occupying Philip's thoughts a good deal just then.\nHe discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himself\nhad repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses were\nbeginning to worry him. Mildred was not a good manager, and it cost them\nas much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed\nclothes, and Mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it\nwas impossible for her to do without. When they returned from Brighton she\nhad announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite\nsteps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. When she was\nwell she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it:\neither she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the work\nwas more than she felt strong enough to do. Once she got an offer, but the\nwages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth\nmore than that.\n\n\"It's no good letting oneself be put upon,\" she remarked. \"People don't\nrespect you if you let yourself go too cheap.\"\n\n\"I don't think fourteen shillings is so bad,\" answered Philip, drily.\n\nHe could not help thinking how useful it would be towards the expenses of\nthe household, and Mildred was already beginning to hint that she did not\nget a place because she had not got a decent dress to interview employers\nin. He gave her the dress, and she made one or two more attempts, but\nPhilip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. She did not want\nto work. The only way he knew to make money was on the Stock Exchange, and\nhe was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of the summer; but war\nhad broken out with the Transvaal and nothing was doing in South Africans.\nMacalister told him that Redvers Buller would march into Pretoria in a\nmonth and then everything would boom. The only thing was to wait\npatiently. What they wanted was a British reverse to knock things down a\nbit, and then it might be worth while buying. Philip began reading\nassiduously the 'city chat' of his favourite newspaper. He was worried and\nirritable. Once or twice he spoke sharply to Mildred, and since she was\nneither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and they quarrelled.\nPhilip always expressed his regret for what he had said, but Mildred had\nnot a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for a couple of days. She got\non his nerves in all sorts of ways; by the manner in which she ate, and by\nthe untidiness which made her leave articles of clothing about their\nsitting-room: Philip was excited by the war and devoured the papers,\nmorning and evening; but she took no interest in anything that happened.\nShe had made the acquaintance of two or three people who lived in the\nstreet, and one of them had asked if she would like the curate to call on\nher. She wore a wedding-ring and called herself Mrs. Carey. On Philip's\nwalls were two or three of the drawings which he had made in Paris, nudes,\ntwo of women and one of Miguel Ajuria, standing very square on his feet,\nwith clenched fists. Philip kept them because they were the best things he\nhad done, and they reminded him of happy days. Mildred had long looked at\nthem with disfavour.\n\n\"I wish you'd take those drawings down, Philip,\" she said to him at last.\n\"Mrs. Foreman, of number thirteen, came in yesterday afternoon, and I\ndidn't know which way to look. I saw her staring at them.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with them?\"\n\n\"They're indecent. Disgusting, that's what I call it, to have drawings of\nnaked people about. And it isn't nice for baby either. She's beginning to\nnotice things now.\"\n\n\"How can you be so vulgar?\"\n\n\"Vulgar? Modest, I call it. I've never said anything, but d'you think I\nlike having to look at those naked people all day long.\"\n\n\"Have you no sense of humour at all, Mildred?\" he asked frigidly.\n\n\"I don't know what sense of humour's got to do with it. I've got a good\nmind to take them down myself. If you want to know what I think about\nthem, I think they're disgusting.\"\n\n\"I don't want to know what you think about them, and I forbid you to touch\nthem.\"\n\nWhen Mildred was cross with him she punished him through the baby. The\nlittle girl was as fond of Philip as he was of her, and it was her great\npleasure every morning to crawl into his room (she was getting on for two\nnow and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. When\nMildred stopped this the poor child would cry bitterly. To Philip's\nremonstrances she replied:\n\n\"I don't want her to get into habits.\"\n\nAnd if then he said anything more she said:\n\n\"It's nothing to do with you what I do with my child. To hear you talk one\nwould think you was her father. I'm her mother, and I ought to know what's\ngood for her, oughtn't I?\"\n\nPhilip was exasperated by Mildred's stupidity; but he was so indifferent\nto her now that it was only at times she made him angry. He grew used to\nhaving her about. Christmas came, and with it a couple of days holiday for\nPhilip. He brought some holly in and decorated the flat, and on Christmas\nDay he gave small presents to Mildred and the baby. There were only two of\nthem so they could not have a turkey, but Mildred roasted a chicken and\nboiled a Christmas pudding which she had bought at a local grocer's. They\nstood themselves a bottle of wine. When they had dined Philip sat in his\narm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine had\nmade him forget for a while the anxiety about money which was so\nconstantly with him. He felt happy and comfortable. Presently Mildred came\nin to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night, and with\na smile he went into Mildred's bed-room. Then, telling the child to go to\nsleep, he turned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case she\ncried, went back into the sitting-room.\n\n\"Where are you going to sit?\" he asked Mildred.\n\n\"You sit in your chair. I'm going to sit on the floor.\"\n\nWhen he sat down she settled herself in front of the fire and leaned\nagainst his knees. He could not help remembering that this was how they\nhad sat together in her rooms in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, but the\npositions had been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leaned\nhis head against her knee. How passionately he had loved her then! Now he\nfelt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time. He seemed\nstill to feel twined round his neck the baby's soft little arms.\n\n\"Are you comfy?\" he asked.\n\nShe looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. They gazed into the\nfire dreamily, without speaking to one another. At last she turned round\nand stared at him curiously.\n\n\"D'you know that you haven't kissed me once since I came here?\" she said\nsuddenly.\n\n\"D'you want me to?\" he smiled.\n\n\"I suppose you don't care for me in that way any more?\"\n\n\"I'm very fond of you.\"\n\n\"You're much fonder of baby.\"\n\nHe did not answer, and she laid her cheek against his hand.\n\n\"You're not angry with me any more?\" she asked presently, with her eyes\ncast down.\n\n\"Why on earth should I be?\"\n\n\"I've never cared for you as I do now. It's only since I passed through\nthe fire that I've learnt to love you.\" It chilled Philip to hear her make\nuse of the sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which she\ndevoured. Then he wondered whether what she said had any meaning for her:\nperhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelings than the\nstilted language of The Family Herald.\n\n\"It seems so funny our living together like this.\"\n\nHe did not reply for quite a long time, and silence fell upon them again;\nbut at last he spoke and seemed conscious of no interval.\n\n\"You mustn't be angry with me. One can't help these things. I remember\nthat I thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and the\nother; but it was very silly of me. You didn't love me, and it was absurd\nto blame you for that. I thought I could make you love me, but I know now\nthat was impossible. I don't know what it is that makes someone love you,\nbut whatever it is, it's the only thing that matters, and if it isn't\nthere you won't create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of that\nsort.\"\n\n\"I should have thought if you'd loved me really you'd have loved me\nstill.\"\n\n\"I should have thought so too. I remember how I used to think that it\nwould last for ever, I felt I would rather die than be without you, and I\nused to long for the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so that\nnobody cared for you any more and I should have you all to myself.\"\n\nShe did not answer, and presently she got up and said she was going to\nbed. She gave a timid little smile.\n\n\"It's Christmas Day, Philip, won't you kiss me good-night?\"\n\nHe gave a laugh, blushed slightly, and kissed her. She went to her\nbed-room and he began to read.\n\n\n\nXCVI\n\n\nThe climax came two or three weeks later. Mildred was driven by Philip's\nbehaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. There were many different\nemotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility. She\nspent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position. She did\nnot put all her feelings into words, she did not even know what they were,\nbut certain things stood out in her mind, and she thought of them over and\nover again. She had never understood Philip, nor had very much liked him;\nbut she was pleased to have him about her because she thought he was a\ngentleman. She was impressed because his father had been a doctor and his\nuncle was a clergyman. She despised him a little because she had made such\na fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in his\npresence; she could not let herself go, and she felt that he was\ncriticising her manners.\n\nWhen she first came to live in the little rooms in Kennington she was\ntired out and ashamed. She was glad to be left alone. It was a comfort to\nthink that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all weathers,\nand she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. She had hated\nthe life she led. It was horrible to have to be affable and subservient;\nand even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself as\nshe thought of the roughness of men and their brutal language. But it\ncrossed her mind very seldom. She was grateful to Philip for coming to her\nrescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and how\nbadly she had treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. It was easy to make\nit up to him. It meant very little to her. She was surprised when he\nrefused her suggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put on\nairs if he liked, she did not care, he would be anxious enough in a little\nwhile, and then it would be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was any\ndeprivation to her he was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of her\npower over him. He was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. He\nhad so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again,\nand then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to be\nforgiven. It gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. He\nwould have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. She\nhad seen him cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to\nhim, just pretend you didn't notice his tempers, leave him severely alone,\nand in a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little to\nherself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt\nbefore her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not\nwant to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle\ndown with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of\nthe word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? Anyhow\nshe was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She was\nglad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a\ngood deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man's\nchild. He was peculiar and no mistake.\n\nBut one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his\nsubservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days,\nshe was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at\na kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not\nimproved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that there\ncould be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting\nwhen he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes and\ntold her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk,\nand was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation in\nwhich he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and,\nremembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he\ndreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassure\nhim. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable to\nrealise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her\nrelations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not\nunderstand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her that\nPhilip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting\nnurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her\nto the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelny\nhousehold; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like most\nmedical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his\nwork threw him in contact. They were associated in his mind with a faint\nodour of iodoform. Philip received no letters, and there was no girl's\nphotograph among his belongings. If he was in love with someone, he was\nvery clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred's questions with\nfrankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in\nthem.\n\n\"I don't believe he's in love with anybody else,\" she said to herself at\nlast.\n\nIt was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her;\nbut it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat her like\nthat why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? It was unnatural.\nMildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion,\ngenerosity, or kindness. Her only conclusion was that Philip was queer.\nShe took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct were\nchivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheap\nfiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for\nhis delicacy. Her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings,\npurifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of a\nChristmas night. She made up her mind that when they went to Brighton she\nwould put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyone\nwould think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and the\nband. When she found that nothing would induce Philip to share the same\nroom with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice she\nhad never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her.\nShe was astounded. She remembered all he had said in the past and how\ndesperately he had loved her. She felt humiliated and angry, but she had\na sort of native insolence which carried her through. He needn't think she\nwas in love with him, because she wasn't. She hated him sometimes, and she\nlonged to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did\nnot know which way to handle him. She began to be a little nervous with\nhim. Once or twice she cried. Once or twice she set herself to be\nparticularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked\nalong the front at night he made some excuse in a while to release\nhimself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. She\ncould not make it out. The only hold she had over him was through the\nbaby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make him\nwhite with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only time\nthe old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood with the\nbaby in her arms. She noticed it when she was being photographed like that\nby a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood in the same way for\nPhilip to look at her.\n\nWhen they got back to London Mildred began looking for the work she had\nasserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of Philip;\nand she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to him\nthat she was going into rooms and would take the child with her. But her\nheart failed her when she came into closer contact with the possibility.\nShe had grown unused to the long hours, she did not want to be at the beck\nand call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted at the thought of\nwearing once more a uniform. She had made out to such of the neighbours as\nshe knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if they\nheard that she had to go out and work. Her natural indolence asserted\nitself. She did not want to leave Philip, and so long as he was willing to\nprovide for her, she did not see why she should. There was no money to\nthrow away, but she got her board and lodging, and he might get better\noff. His uncle was an old man and might die any day, he would come into a\nlittle then, and even as things were, it was better than slaving from\nmorning till night for a few shillings a week. Her efforts relaxed; she\nkept on reading the advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to\nshow that she wanted to do something if anything that was worth her while\npresented itself. But panic seized her, and she was afraid that Philip\nwould grow tired of supporting her. She had no hold over him at all now,\nand she fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond\nof the baby. She brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrily\nthat she would make him pay for all this some day. She could not reconcile\nherself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. She would make him.\nShe suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desired\nPhilip. He was so cold now that it exasperated her. She thought of him in\nthat way incessantly. She thought that he was treating her very badly, and\nshe did not know what she had done to deserve it. She kept on saying to\nherself that it was unnatural they should live like that. Then she thought\nthat if things were different and she were going to have a baby, he would\nbe sure to marry her. He was funny, but he was a gentleman in every sense\nof the word, no one could deny that. At last it became an obsession with\nher, and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. He\nnever even kissed her now, and she wanted him to: she remembered how\nardently he had been used to press her lips. It gave her a curious feeling\nto think of it. She often looked at his mouth.\n\nOne evening, at the beginning of February, Philip told her that he was\ndining with Lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate his\nbirthday; and he would not be in till late; Lawson had bought a couple of\nbottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in Beak Street, and\nthey proposed to have a merry evening. Mildred asked if there were going\nto be women there, but Philip told her there were not; only men had been\ninvited; and they were just going to sit and talk and smoke: Mildred did\nnot think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she would have\nhalf a dozen models about. She went to bed, but could not sleep, and\npresently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicket\nat the landing, so that Philip could not get in. He came back about one,\nand she heard him curse when he found that the wicket was closed. She got\nout of bed and opened.\n\n\"Why on earth did you shut yourself in? I'm sorry I've dragged you out of\nbed.\"\n\n\"I left it open on purpose, I can't think how it came to be shut.\"\n\n\"Hurry up and get back to bed, or you'll catch cold.\"\n\nHe walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. She followed him\nin. She went up to the fire.\n\n\"I want to warm my feet a bit. They're like ice.\"\n\nHe sat down and began to take off his boots. His eyes were shining and his\ncheeks were flushed. She thought he had been drinking.\n\n\"Have you been enjoying yourself?\" she asked, with a smile.\n\n\"Yes, I've had a ripping time.\"\n\nPhilip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he was\nexcited still. An evening of that sort reminded him of the old days in\nParis. He was in high spirits. He took his pipe out of his pocket and\nfilled it.\n\n\"Aren't you going to bed?\" she asked.\n\n\"Not yet, I'm not a bit sleepy. Lawson was in great form. He talked\nsixteen to the dozen from the moment I got there till the moment I left.\"\n\n\"What did you talk about?\"\n\n\"Heaven knows! Of every subject under the sun. You should have seen us all\nshouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening.\"\n\nPhilip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and Mildred laughed too.\nShe was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. That was\nexactly what she had expected. She knew men.\n\n\"Can I sit down?\" she said.\n\nBefore he could answer she settled herself on his knees.\n\n\"If you're not going to bed you'd better go and put on a dressing-gown.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm all right as I am.\" Then putting her arms round his neck, she\nplaced her face against his and said: \"Why are you so horrid to me, Phil?\"\n\nHe tried to get up, but she would not let him.\n\n\"I do love you, Philip,\" she said.\n\n\"Don't talk damned rot.\"\n\n\"It isn't, it's true. I can't live without you. I want you.\"\n\nHe released himself from her arms.\n\n\"Please get up. You're making a fool of yourself and you're making me feel\na perfect idiot.\"\n\n\"I love you, Philip. I want to make up for all the harm I did you. I can't\ngo on like this, it's not in human nature.\"\n\nHe slipped out of the chair and left her in it.\n\n\"I'm very sorry, but it's too late.\"\n\nShe gave a heart-rending sob.\n\n\"But why? How can you be so cruel?\"\n\n\"I suppose it's because I loved you too much. I wore the passion out. The\nthought of anything of that sort horrifies me. I can't look at you now\nwithout thinking of Emil and Griffiths. One can't help those things, I\nsuppose it's just nerves.\"\n\nShe seized his hand and covered it with kisses.\n\n\"Don't,\" he cried.\n\nShe sank back into the chair.\n\n\"I can't go on like this. If you won't love me, I'd rather go away.\"\n\n\"Don't be foolish, you haven't anywhere to go. You can stay here as long\nas you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that we're\nfriends and nothing more.\"\n\nThen she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft,\ninsinuating laugh. She sidled up to Philip and put her arms round him. She\nmade her voice low and wheedling.\n\n\"Don't be such an old silly. I believe you're nervous. You don't know how\nnice I can be.\"\n\nShe put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. To Philip her\nsmile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her eyes\nfilled him with horror. He drew back instinctively.\n\n\"I won't,\" he said.\n\nBut she would not let him go. She sought his mouth with her lips. He took\nher hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away.\n\n\"You disgust me,\" he said.\n\n\"Me?\"\n\nShe steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. She looked at him\nfor an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. She\ngave a shrill, angry laugh.\n\n\"I disgust YOU.\"\n\nShe paused and drew in her breath sharply. Then she burst into a furious\ntorrent of abuse. She shouted at the top of her voice. She called him\nevery foul name she could think of. She used language so obscene that\nPhilip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shocked\nby coarseness, that it had never occurred to him that she knew the words\nshe used now. She came up to him and thrust her face in his. It was\ndistorted with passion, and in her tumultuous speech the spittle dribbled\nover her lips.\n\n\"I never cared for you, not once, I was making a fool of you always, you\nbored me, you bored me stiff, and I hated you, I would never have let you\ntouch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when I had to let\nyou kiss me. We laughed at you, Griffiths and me, we laughed because you\nwas such a mug. A mug! A mug!\"\n\nThen she burst again into abominable invective. She accused him of every\nmean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he was\nvain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything upon which he was\nmost sensitive. And at last she turned to go. She kept on, with hysterical\nviolence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthy epithet. She seized the\nhandle of the door and flung it open. Then she turned round and hurled at\nhim the injury which she knew was the only one that really touched him.\nShe threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she was\ncapable. She flung it at him as though it were a blow.\n\n\"Cripple!\"\n\n\n\nXCVII\n\n\nPhilip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, and\nlooking at his watch found it was nine o'clock. He jumped out of bed and\nwent into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. There\nwas no sign of Mildred, and the things which she had used for her supper\nthe night before still lay in the sink unwashed. He knocked at her door.\n\n\"Wake up, Mildred. It's awfully late.\"\n\nShe did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concluded\nthat she was sulking. He was in too great a hurry to bother about that. He\nput some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always poured\nout the night before in order to take the chill off. He presumed that\nMildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the\nsitting-room. She had done that two or three times when she was out of\ntemper. But he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if he\nwanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself. He was irritated\nthat she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slept\nhimself. There was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heard\nher moving about her room. She was evidently getting up. He made himself\nsome tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which he\nate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and along\nthe street into the main road to catch his tram. While his eyes sought out\nthe newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the\nscene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, he\ncould not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous,\nbut he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had been\noverwhelming. He was angry with Mildred because she had forced him into\nthat absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of her\noutburst and the filthy language she had used. He could not help flushing\nwhen he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders\ncontemptuously. He had long known that when his fellows were angry with\nhim they never failed to taunt him with his deformity. He had seen men at\nthe hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, but\nwhen they thought he was not looking. He knew now that they did it from no\nwilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and\nbecause it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could\nnever resign himself to it.\n\nHe was glad to throw himself into his work. The ward seemed pleasant and\nfriendly when he entered it. The sister greeted him with a quick,\nbusiness-like smile.\n\n\"You're very late, Mr. Carey.\"\n\n\"I was out on the loose last night.\"\n\n\"You look it.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\nLaughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculous\nulcers, and removed his bandages. The boy was pleased to see him, and\nPhilip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. Philip was a\nfavourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he had\ngentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers were\na little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods. He lunched with his\nfriends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter,\nwith a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war. Several men were going\nout, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had not\nhad a hospital appointment. Someone suggested that, if the war went on, in\na while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the\ngeneral opinion was that it would be over in a month. Now that Roberts was\nthere things would get all right in no time. This was Macalister's opinion\ntoo, and he had told Philip that they must watch their chance and buy just\nbefore peace was declared. There would be a boom then, and they might all\nmake a bit of money. Philip had left with Macalister instructions to buy\nhim stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. His appetite had been\nwhetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now\nto make a couple of hundred.\n\nHe finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to Kennington. He\nwondered how Mildred would behave that evening. It was a nuisance to think\nthat she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions. It\nwas a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets of\nSouth London there was the languor of February; nature is restless then\nafter the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and\nthere is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its\neternal activities. Philip would have liked to drive on further, it was\ndistasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but the\ndesire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he\nsmiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow of\ndelight. He was surprised, when he reached the house and looked up\nmechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. He went\nupstairs and knocked, but got no answer. When Mildred went out she left\nthe key under the mat and he found it there now. He let himself in and\ngoing into the sitting-room struck a match. Something had happened, he did\nnot at once know what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room was\nsuddenly filled with the glare and he looked round. He gasped. The whole\nplace was wrecked. Everything in it had been wilfully destroyed. Anger\nseized him, and he rushed into Mildred's room. It was dark and empty. When\nhe had got a light he saw that she had taken away all her things and the\nbaby's (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usual\nplace on the landing, but thought Mildred had taken the baby out;) and all\nthe things on the washing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawn\ncross-ways through the seats of the two chairs, the pillow had been slit\nopen, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, the\nlooking-glass appeared to have been broken with a hammer. Philip was\nbewildered. He went into his own room, and here too everything was in\nconfusion. The basin and the ewer had been smashed, the looking-glass was\nin fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. Mildred had made a slit\nlarge enough to put her hand into the pillow and had scattered the\nfeathers about the room. She had jabbed a knife into the blankets. On the\ndressing-table were photographs of Philip's mother, the frames had been\nsmashed and the glass shivered. Philip went into the tiny kitchen.\nEverything that was breakable was broken, glasses, pudding-basins, plates,\ndishes.\n\nIt took Philip's breath away. Mildred had left no letter, nothing but this\nruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which she\nhad gone about her work. He went back into the sitting-room and looked\nabout him. He was so astonished that he no longer felt angry. He looked\ncuriously at the kitchen-knife and the coal-hammer, which were lying on\nthe table where she had left them. Then his eye caught a large\ncarving-knife in the fireplace which had been broken. It must have taken\nher a long time to do so much damage. Lawson's portrait of him had been\ncut cross-ways and gaped hideously. His own drawings had been ripped in\npieces; and the photographs, Manet's Olympia and the Odalisque of\nIngres, the portrait of Philip IV, had been smashed with great blows of\nthe coal-hammer. There were gashes in the table-cloth and in the curtains\nand in the two arm-chairs. They were quite ruined. On one wall over the\ntable which Philip used as his desk was the little bit of Persian rug\nwhich Cronshaw had given him. Mildred had always hated it.\n\n\"If it's a rug it ought to go on the floor,\" she said, \"and it's a dirty\nstinking bit of stuff, that's all it is.\"\n\nIt made her furious because Philip told her it contained the answer to a\ngreat riddle. She thought he was making fun of her. She had drawn the\nknife right through it three times, it must have required some strength,\nand it hung now in tatters. Philip had two or three blue and white plates,\nof no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums and\nliked them for their associations. They littered the floor in fragments.\nThere were long gashes on the backs of his books, and she had taken the\ntrouble to tear pages out of the unbound French ones. The little ornaments\non the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. Everything that it had\nbeen possible to destroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed.\n\nThe whole of Philip's belongings would not have sold for thirty pounds,\nbut most of them were old friends, and he was a domestic creature,\nattached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had been\nproud of his little home, and on so little money had made it pretty and\ncharacteristic. He sank down now in despair. He asked himself how she\ncould have been so cruel. A sudden fear got him on his feet again and into\nthe passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. He\nopened it and gave a sigh of relief. She had apparently forgotten it and\nnone of his things was touched.\n\nHe went back into the sitting-room and, surveying the scene, wondered what\nto do; he had not the heart to begin trying to set things straight;\nbesides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry. He went out and\ngot himself something to eat. When he came in he was cooler. A little pang\nseized him as he thought of the child, and he wondered whether she would\nmiss him, at first perhaps, but in a week she would have forgotten him;\nand he was thankful to be rid of Mildred. He did not think of her with\nwrath, but with an overwhelming sense of boredom.\n\n\"I hope to God I never see her again,\" he said aloud.\n\nThe only thing now was to leave the rooms, and he made up his mind to give\nnotice the next morning. He could not afford to make good the damage done,\nand he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still.\nHe would be glad to get out of them. The expense had worried him, and now\nthe recollection of Mildred would be in them always. Philip was impatient\nand could never rest till he had put in action the plan which he had in\nmind; so on the following afternoon he got in a dealer in second-hand\nfurniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged and\nundamaged; and two days later he moved into the house opposite the\nhospital in which he had had rooms when first he became a medical student.\nThe landlady was a very decent woman. He took a bed-room at the top, which\nshe let him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby and\nlooked on the yard of the house that backed on to it, but he had nothing\nnow except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge so\ncheaply.\n\n\n\nXCVIII\n\n\nAnd now it happened that the fortunes of Philip Carey, of no consequence\nto any but himself, were affected by the events through which his country\nwas passing. History was being made, and the process was so significant\nthat it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medical\nstudent. Battle after battle, Magersfontein, Colenso, Spion Kop, lost on\nthe playing fields of Eton, had humiliated the nation and dealt the\ndeath-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then had\nfound no one seriously to oppose their assertion that they possessed a\nnatural instinct of government. The old order was being swept away:\nhistory was being made indeed. Then the colossus put forth his strength,\nand, blundering again, at last blundered into the semblance of victory.\nCronje surrendered at Paardeberg, Ladysmith was relieved, and at the\nbeginning of March Lord Roberts marched into Bloemfontein.\n\nIt was two or three days after the news of this reached London that\nMacalister came into the tavern in Beak Street and announced joyfully that\nthings were looking brighter on the Stock Exchange. Peace was in sight,\nRoberts would march into Pretoria within a few weeks, and shares were\ngoing up already. There was bound to be a boom.\n\n\"Now's the time to come in,\" he told Philip. \"It's no good waiting till\nthe public gets on to it. It's now or never.\"\n\nHe had inside information. The manager of a mine in South Africa had\ncabled to the senior partner of his firm that the plant was uninjured.\nThey would start working again as soon as possible. It wasn't a\nspeculation, it was an investment. To show how good a thing the senior\npartner thought it Macalister told Philip that he had bought five hundred\nshares for both his sisters: he never put them into anything that wasn't\nas safe as the Bank of England.\n\n\"I'm going to put my shirt on it myself,\" he said.\n\nThe shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. He advised Philip not to\nbe greedy, but to be satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. He was buying\nthree hundred for himself and suggested that Philip should do the same. He\nwould hold them and sell when he thought fit. Philip had great faith in\nhim, partly because he was a Scotsman and therefore by nature cautious,\nand partly because he had been right before. He jumped at the suggestion.\n\n\"I daresay we shall be able to sell before the account,\" said Macalister,\n\"but if not, I'll arrange to carry them over for you.\"\n\nIt seemed a capital system to Philip. You held on till you got your\nprofit, and you never even had to put your hand in your pocket. He began\nto watch the Stock Exchange columns of the paper with new interest. Next\nday everything was up a little, and Macalister wrote to say that he had\nhad to pay two and a quarter for the shares. He said that the market was\nfirm. But in a day or two there was a set-back. The news that came from\nSouth Africa was less reassuring, and Philip with anxiety saw that his\nshares had fallen to two; but Macalister was optimistic, the Boers\ncouldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that\nRoberts would march into Johannesburg before the middle of April. At the\naccount Philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. It worried him\nconsiderably, but he felt that the only course was to hold on: in his\ncircumstances the loss was too great for him to pocket. For two or three\nweeks nothing happened; the Boers would not understand that they were\nbeaten and nothing remained for them but to surrender: in fact they had\none or two small successes, and Philip's shares fell half a crown more. It\nbecame evident that the war was not finished. There was a lot of selling.\nWhen Macalister saw Philip he was pessimistic.\n\n\"I'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut the loss. I've been\npaying out about as much as I want to in differences.\"\n\nPhilip was sick with anxiety. He could not sleep at night; he bolted his\nbreakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get over\nto the club reading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad,\nand sometimes there was no news at all, but when the shares moved it was\nto go down. He did not know what to do. If he sold now he would lose\naltogether hard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave\nhim only eighty pounds to go on with. He wished with all his heart that he\nhad never been such a fool as to dabble on the Stock Exchange, but the\nonly thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any day and the\nshares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted to\nmake good his loss. It was his only chance of finishing his course at the\nhospital. The Summer session was beginning in May, and at the end of it he\nmeant to take the examination in midwifery. Then he would only have a year\nmore; he reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he\ncould manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that was\nthe least it could possibly be done on.\n\nEarly in April he went to the tavern in Beak Street anxious to see\nMacalister. It eased him a little to discuss the situation with him; and\nto realise that numerous people beside himself were suffering from loss of\nmoney made his own trouble a little less intolerable. But when Philip\narrived no one was there but Hayward, and no sooner had Philip seated\nhimself than he said:\n\n\"I'm sailing for the Cape on Sunday.\"\n\n\"Are you!\" exclaimed Philip.\n\nHayward was the last person he would have expected to do anything of the\nkind. At the hospital men were going out now in numbers; the Government\nwas glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, going out as\ntroopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as it\nwas learned that they were medical students. A wave of patriotic feeling\nhad swept over the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of\nsociety.\n\n\"What are you going as?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, in the Dorset Yeomanry. I'm going as a trooper.\"\n\nPhilip had known Hayward for eight years. The youthful intimacy which had\ncome from Philip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell him\nof art and literature had long since vanished; but habit had taken its\nplace; and when Hayward was in London they saw one another once or twice\na week. He still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. Philip\nwas not yet tolerant, and sometimes Hayward's conversation irritated him.\nHe no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was of\nconsequence but art. He resented Hayward's contempt for action and\nsuccess. Philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early friendship and\nhis ardent expectation that Hayward would do great things; it was long\nsince he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that Hayward would\nnever do anything but talk. He found his three hundred a year more\ndifficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he was\na young man; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, were\nworn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thought possible.\nHe was too stout and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could conceal\nthe fact that he was bald. His blue eyes were dull and pale. It was not\nhard to guess that he drank too much.\n\n\"What on earth made you think of going out to the Cape?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, I thought I ought to.\"\n\nPhilip was silent. He felt rather silly. He understood that Hayward was\nbeing driven by an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for.\nSome power within him made it seem necessary to go and fight for his\ncountry. It was strange, since he considered patriotism no more than a\nprejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had looked\nupon England as a place of exile. His countrymen in the mass wounded his\nsusceptibilities. Philip wondered what it was that made people do things\nwhich were so contrary to all their theories of life. It would have been\nreasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the\nbarbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppets\nin the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that;\nand sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when\nthis was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason.\n\n\"People are very extraordinary,\" said Philip. \"I should never have\nexpected you to go out as a trooper.\"\n\nHayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said nothing.\n\n\"I was examined yesterday,\" he remarked at last. \"It was worth while\nundergoing the gene of it to know that one was perfectly fit.\"\n\nPhilip noticed that he still used a French word in an affected way when an\nEnglish one would have served. But just then Macalister came in.\n\n\"I wanted to see you, Carey,\" he said. \"My people don't feel inclined to\nhold those shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and they\nwant you to take them up.\"\n\nPhilip's heart sank. He knew that was impossible. It meant that he must\naccept the loss. His pride made him answer calmly.\n\n\"I don't know that I think that's worth while. You'd better sell them.\"\n\n\"It's all very fine to say that, I'm not sure if I can. The market's\nstagnant, there are no buyers.\"\n\n\"But they're marked down at one and an eighth.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You can't get that for them.\"\n\nPhilip did not say anything for a moment. He was trying to collect\nhimself.\n\n\"D'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't say that. Of course they're worth something, but you see,\nnobody's buying them now.\"\n\n\"Then you must just sell them for what you can get.\"\n\nMacalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered whether he was very hard\nhit.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat. No one\nthought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but I\nwas in myself too.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter at all,\" said Philip. \"One has to take one's chance.\"\n\nHe moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to Macalister.\nHe was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he did\nnot want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for an hour. He laughed\nfeverishly at everything they said. At last he got up to go.\n\n\"You take it pretty coolly,\" said Macalister, shaking hands with him. \"I\ndon't suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds.\"\n\nWhen Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his\nbed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his folly\nbitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what\nhad happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could not\nhelp himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He remembered\nall the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. His head ached\ndreadfully.\n\nThe following evening there came by the last post the statement of his\naccount. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paid\neverything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was thankful\nhe had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be obliged to\nconfess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was dressing in the\neye-department during the summer session, and he had bought an\nophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not paid for\nthis, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to go\nback on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about five\npounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle\na letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to the\nwar he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless\nhis uncle came to his help. He suggested that the Vicar should lend him a\nhundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthly\ninstalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund the\ncapital by degrees when he began to earn money. He would be qualified in\na year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of\ngetting an assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back that\nhe could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out when\neverything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty\nto himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. He ended\nthe letter with a little homily. He had warned Philip time after time, and\nPhilip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say he\nwas surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of Philip's\nextravagance and want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read\nthis. It had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he\nburst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if\nhis uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panic\nseized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar of\nBlackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did\nnot explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what\ndesperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his\nmind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living.\nWhen he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused to\ngive him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who\nfor many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself\njustified.\n\n\n\nXCIX\n\n\nPhilip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating only\none meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and butter and\ncocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning. He was so\nhungry by nine o'clock that he had to go to bed. He thought of borrowing\nmoney from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he\nasked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did\nso, said:\n\n\"You'll let me have it back in a week or so, won't you? I've got to pay my\nframer, and I'm awfully broke just now.\"\n\nPhilip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what\nLawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took\nthe money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and asked\nPhilip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to get some\nsolid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from Athelny. He\nhesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him: they had always\nlooked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they\nwould think less well of him if they knew he was penniless.\n\nThough he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to\neat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that happened\nto the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if he had some\ndisgraceful disease. The situation in which he found himself was quite\noutside the range of his experience. He was so taken aback that he did not\nknow what else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope\nthat something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was\nhappening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first term at\nschool he had often thought his life was a dream from which he would awake\nto find himself once more at home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week\nor so he would have no money at all. He must set about trying to earn\nsomething at once. If he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he\ncould have gone out to the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now\ngreat. Except for his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the\nyeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. He went to the\nsecretary of the Medical School and asked if he could give him the\ncoaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of\ngetting him anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of\nthe medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant\nto a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him,\nhe saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip was\nonly in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his\nexperience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an\nexcuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as\nhe wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. He\nknew French and German and thought there might be some chance of finding\na job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but he set his\nteeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to answer the\nadvertisements which demanded a personal application, he replied to those\nwhich asked for letters; but he had no experience to state and no\nrecommendations: he was conscious that neither his German nor his French\nwas commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew\nneither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help recognising that his\ncase was hopeless. He thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his\nfather's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was contrary\nto his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money\nhad been invested. He knew from his uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly\ndisapproved of him. He had gathered from Philip's year in the accountant's\noffice that he was idle and incompetent.\n\n\"I'd sooner starve,\" Philip muttered to himself.\n\nOnce or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it would\nbe easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was a\ncomfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means\nof making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that he\nconsidered seriously. When Mildred had left him to go with Griffiths his\nanguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the\npain. He did not feel like that now. He remembered that the Casualty\nSister had told him how people oftener did away with themselves for want\nof money than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he\nwas an exception. He wished only that he could talk his worries over with\nsomebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. He was ashamed.\nHe went on looking for work. He left his rent unpaid for three weeks,\nexplaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the\nmonth; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. When\nthe end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him\nto pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he\ncould not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able\nto settle his bill on the following Saturday.\n\n\"Well, I 'ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I 'ave my rent to pay, and I\ncan't afford to let accounts run on.\" She did not speak with anger, but\nwith determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment\nand then said: \"If you don't pay next Saturday, I shall 'ave to complain\nto the secretary of the 'ospital.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, that'll be all right.\"\n\nShe looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When she\nspoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing\nto say.\n\n\"I've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the\nkitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner.\"\n\nPhilip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at\nhis throat.\n\n\"Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I'm not at all hungry.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir.\"\n\nWhen she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to clench\nhis fists in order to prevent himself from crying.\n\n\n\nC\n\n\nSaturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. He\nhad been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had found\nno work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so\ndazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind a\nfeeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than\na few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he\nhad some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got\na shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and\ngoings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his\nroom. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. He\nhad not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine and\nwarm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the Chelsea\nEmbankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired,\nand then sat on a bench and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he\nawoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and\ntold to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He\nwalked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he\nslept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The night\nseemed very long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of his misery;\nand he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on\nthe Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks\nflush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who did\nand how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to\nuniversities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a\nline to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better to\ncommit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him when\nhe knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him\nfrom asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come such a cropper. He\nhad always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone\nwrong. He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been\nmore selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be\nreduced to such a pass.\n\nBut it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light: the\nriver was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious in\nthe early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in the\ndawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at his\nentrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of being\nspoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification of that. He felt\ndirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he found himself at Hampton\nCourt. He felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. He\nchose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot things,\nand it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat something nourishing\nenough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the\nsight of food. He had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He\nremembered then that it was Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; he\nthought of the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he\nwas fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. He was\nfeeling morose and wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his\nmind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His\nbones ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands\nand face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no\nlonger hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and\nthe great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better what\nhe must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. For\neconomy's sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a day;\nhe was thankful now that his pouch was full. He did not know what people\ndid when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it was\nnearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for London\nso as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements which\nseemed to promise. He thought of his uncle, who had told him that he would\nleave him at his death the little he had; Philip did not in the least know\nhow much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. He\nwondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. Not without the\nold man's consent, and that he would never give.\n\n\"The only thing I can do is to hang on somehow till he dies.\"\n\nPhilip reckoned his age. The Vicar of Blackstable was well over seventy.\nHe had chronic bronchitis, but many old men had that and lived on\nindefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn up; Philip could not get away\nfrom the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people in his\nparticular station did not starve. It was because he could not bring\nhimself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did not give\nway to utter despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from\nLawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt very\nhungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting out again for\nLondon: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. He\nstarted when the day began to grow cooler, and slept on benches when he\nwas tired. No one disturbed him. He had a wash and brush up, and a shave\nat Victoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating this\nread the advertisement columns of the morning paper. As he looked down\nthem his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the\n'furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. He had a\ncurious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class prejudices\nit seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged his shoulders, after\nall what did it matter? and he made up his mind to have a shot at it. He\nhad a queer feeling that by accepting every humiliation, by going out to\nmeet it even, he was forcing the hand of fate. When he presented himself,\nfeeling horribly shy, in the department at nine o'clock he found that many\nothers were there before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteen\nto men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most\nwere silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a\nlook of hostility. He heard one man say:\n\n\"The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to\ngive me time to look elsewhere.\"\n\nThe man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and asked:\n\n\"Had any experience?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Philip.\n\nHe paused a moment and then made a remark: \"Even the smaller houses won't\nsee you without appointment after lunch.\"\n\nPhilip looked at the assistants. Some were draping chintzes and cretonnes,\nand others, his neighbour told him were preparing country orders that had\ncome in by post. At about a quarter past nine the buyer arrived. He heard\none of the men who were waiting say to another that it was Mr. Gibbons. He\nwas middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark, greasy\nhair. He had brisk movements and a clever face. He wore a silk hat and a\nfrock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a white geranium\nsurrounded by leaves. He went into his office, leaving the door open; it\nwas very small and contained only an American roll-desk in the corner, a\nbookcase, and a cupboard. The men standing outside watched him\nmechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-pot\nfilled with water. It was against the rules to wear flowers in business.\n\nDuring the day the department men who wanted to keep in with the governor\nadmired the flower.\n\n\"I've never seen better,\" they said, \"you didn't grow it yourself?\"\n\n\"Yes I did,\" he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled his intelligent eyes.\n\nHe took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at the letters and then\nat the men who were waiting to see him. He made a slight sign with one\nfinger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. They filed\npast him one by one and answered his questions. He put them very briefly,\nkeeping his eyes fixed on the applicant's face.\n\n\"Age? Experience? Why did you leave your job?\"\n\nHe listened to the replies without expression. When it came to Philip's\nturn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him curiously. Philip's clothes\nwere neat and tolerably cut. He looked a little different from the others.\n\n\"Experience?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I haven't any,\" said Philip.\n\n\"No good.\"\n\nPhilip walked out of the office. The ordeal had been so much less painful\nthan he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. He could\nhardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. He had\nkept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements again: a shop in\nHolborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but when he arrived he\nfound that someone had already been engaged. If he wanted to get anything\nto eat that day he must go to Lawson's studio before he went out to\nluncheon, so he made his way along the Brompton Road to Yeoman's Row.\n\n\"I say, I'm rather broke till the end of the month,\" he said as soon as he\nfound an opportunity. \"I wish you'd lend me half a sovereign, will you?\"\n\nIt was incredible the difficulty he found in asking for money; and he\nremembered the casual way, as though almost they were conferring a favour,\nmen at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him which they had no\nintention of repaying.\n\n\"Like a shot,\" said Lawson.\n\nBut when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight\nshillings. Philip's heart sank.\n\n\"Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?\" he said lightly.\n\n\"Here you are.\"\n\nPhilip went to the public baths in Westminster and spent sixpence on a\nbath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to do\nwith himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital in\ncase anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do\nthere now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had worked\nin why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it did not\nmatter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out without\nwarning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers till they\nwearied him, then he took out Stevenson's New Arabian Nights; but he\nfound he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continued\nto brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same things all\nthe time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache. At last,\ncraving for fresh air, he went into the Green Park and lay down on the\ngrass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it impossible for\nhim to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenly\nsound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of Yeomanry; the pictures\nhe had looked at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy;\nand he saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki, sitting with other men round a\nfire at night. When he awoke he found that it was still quite light, and\npresently he heard Big Ben strike seven. He had twelve hours to get\nthrough with nothing to do. He dreaded the interminable night. The sky was\novercast and he feared it would rain; he would have to go to a\nlodging-house where he could get a bed; he had seen them advertised on\nlamps outside houses in Lambeth: Good Beds sixpence; he had never been\ninside one, and dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. He made up his mind\nto stay in the open air if he possibly could. He remained in the park till\nit was closed and then began to walk about. He was very tired. The thought\ncame to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be\ntaken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnight\nhe was so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to\na coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a\ncup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and he\nhad a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that he was\nbeginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle. This was the\nthird night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the benches in\nPiccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The Embankment. He\nlistened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every quarter of an hour, and\nreckoned out how long it left till the city woke again. In the morning he\nspent a few coppers on making himself neat and clean, bought a paper to\nread the advertisements, and set out once more on the search for work.\n\nHe went on in this way for several days. He had very little food and began\nto feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on looking\nfor the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He was growing used\nnow to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he would\nbe taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to all parts of London in\nanswer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who applied\nas fruitlessly as himself. One or two tried to make friends with him, but\nhe was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances. He did not go\nany more to Lawson, because he owed him five shillings. He began to be too\ndazed to think clearly and ceased very much to care what would happen to\nhim. He cried a good deal. At first he was very angry with himself for\nthis and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel\nless hungry. In the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold.\nOne night he went into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about\nthree, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at\nfive; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones\nached, and as he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so\ndelicious that he did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to want\nof food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the\nback of his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used\nall the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the\ntemptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help\nhimself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit\nsuicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the\nimpression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite\nseriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which he\nwas bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce him\nto put up with such another and determined next morning to write to his\nuncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the time\ncame he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession of his\nutter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In their\nfriendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself on\nhis common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of his folly. He\nhad an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him, would turn the cold\nshoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would of course do something\nfor him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did not want anyone to\nreproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated that what had happened\nwas inevitable just because it had happened. Regret was absurd.\n\nThe days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him would\nnot last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he could go\nto Athelny's. He did not know what prevented him from going there sooner,\nexcept perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own; for\nAthelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person who\ncould do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he could bring himself to\ntell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip repeated to himself over\nand over again what he should say to him. He was dreadfully afraid that\nAthelny would put him off with airy phrases: that would be so horrible\nthat he wanted to delay as long as possible the putting of him to the\ntest. Philip had lost all confidence in his fellows.\n\nSaturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday on\nSaturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny's house he ate\nnothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and a\nbrush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross.\n\n\n\nCI\n\n\nWhen Philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a minute he\nheard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children ran down to let him\nin. It was a pale, anxious, thin face that he bent down for them to kiss.\nHe was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give himself time to\nrecover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical\nstate and almost anything was enough to make him cry. They asked him why\nhe had not come on the previous Sunday, and he told them he had been ill;\nthey wanted to know what was the matter with him; and Philip, to amuse\nthem, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which, double-barrelled\nand barbarous with its mixture of Greek and Latin (medical nomenclature\nbristled with such), made them shriek with delight. They dragged Philip\ninto the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's edification.\nAthelny got up and shook hands with him. He stared at Philip, but with his\nround, bulging eyes he always seemed to stare, Philip did not know why on\nthis occasion it made him self-conscious.\n\n\"We missed you last Sunday,\" he said.\n\nPhilip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was scarlet\nwhen he finished his explanation for not coming. Then Mrs. Athelny entered\nand shook hands with him.\n\n\"I hope you're better, Mr. Carey,\" she said.\n\nHe did not know why she imagined that anything had been the matter with\nhim, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up with the children,\nand they had not left him.\n\n\"Dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes,\" she said, in her slow\ndrawl. \"Won't you have an egg beaten up in a glass of milk while you're\nwaiting?\"\n\nThere was a look of concern on her face which made Philip uncomfortable.\nHe forced a laugh and answered that he was not at all hungry. Sally came\nin to lay the table, and Philip began to chaff her. It was the family joke\nthat she would be as fat as an aunt of Mrs. Athelny, called Aunt\nElizabeth, whom the children had never seen but regarded as the type of\nobscene corpulence.\n\n\"I say, what HAS happened since I saw you last, Sally?\" Philip began.\n\n\"Nothing that I know of.\"\n\n\"I believe you've been putting on weight.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you haven't,\" she retorted. \"You're a perfect skeleton.\"\n\nPhilip reddened.\n\n\"That's a tu quoque, Sally,\" cried her father. \"You will be fined one\ngolden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the shears.\"\n\n\"Well, he is thin, father,\" remonstrated Sally. \"He's just skin and bone.\"\n\n\"That's not the question, child. He is at perfect liberty to be thin, but\nyour obesity is contrary to decorum.\"\n\nAs he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at her with\nadmiring eyes.\n\n\"Let me get on with the table, father. If I am comfortable there are some\nwho don't seem to mind it.\"\n\n\"The hussy!\" cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand. \"She taunts\nme with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son of Levi who sells jewels in\nHolborn, has made her an offer of marriage.\"\n\n\"Have you accepted him, Sally?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Don't you know father better than that by this time? There's not a word\nof truth in it.\"\n\n\"Well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage,\" cried Athelny, \"by\nSaint George and Merry England, I will seize him by the nose and demand of\nhim immediately what are his intentions.\"\n\n\"Sit down, father, dinner's ready. Now then, you children, get along with\nyou and wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk it, because I mean to\nlook at them before you have a scrap of dinner, so there.\"\n\nPhilip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then discovered\nthat his stomach turned against food, and he could eat hardly at all. His\nbrain was weary; and he did not notice that Athelny, contrary to his\nhabit, spoke very little. Philip was relieved to be sitting in a\ncomfortable house, but every now and then he could not prevent himself\nfrom glancing out of the window. The day was tempestuous. The fine weather\nhad broken; and it was cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again\ngusts of rain drove against the window. Philip wondered what he should do\nthat night. The Athelnys went to bed early, and he could not stay where he\nwas after ten o'clock. His heart sank at the thought of going out into the\nbleak darkness. It seemed more terrible now that he was with his friends\nthan when he was outside and alone. He kept on saying to himself that\nthere were plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. He\nstrove to distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his words a\nspatter of rain against the window would make him start.\n\n\"It's like March weather,\" said Athelny. \"Not the sort of day one would\nlike to be crossing the Channel.\"\n\nPresently they finished, and Sally came in and cleared away.\n\n\"Would you like a twopenny stinker?\" said Athelny, handing him a cigar.\n\nPhilip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. It soothed him\nextraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny told her to shut the door\nafter her.\n\n\"Now we shan't be disturbed,\" he said, turning to Philip. \"I've arranged\nwith Betty not to let the children come in till I call them.\"\n\nPhilip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the meaning\nof his words, Athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose with the gesture\nhabitual to him, went on.\n\n\"I wrote to you last Sunday to ask if anything was the matter with you,\nand as you didn't answer I went to your rooms on Wednesday.\"\n\nPhilip turned his head away and did not answer. His heart began to beat\nviolently. Athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed\nintolerable to Philip. He could not think of a single word to say.\n\n\"Your landlady told me you hadn't been in since Saturday night, and she\nsaid you owed her for the last month. Where have you been sleeping all\nthis week?\"\n\nIt made Philip sick to answer. He stared out of the window.\n\n\"Nowhere.\"\n\n\"I tried to find you.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Betty and I have been just as broke in our day, only we had babies to\nlook after. Why didn't you come here?\"\n\n\"I couldn't.\"\n\nPhilip was afraid he was going to cry. He felt very weak. He shut his eyes\nand frowned, trying to control himself. He felt a sudden flash of anger\nwith Athelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was broken; and\npresently, his eyes still closed, slowly in order to keep his voice\nsteady, he told him the story of his adventures during the last few weeks.\nAs he spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved inanely, and it made it\nstill harder to tell. He felt that Athelny would think him an utter fool.\n\n\"Now you're coming to live with us till you find something to do,\" said\nAthelny, when he had finished.\n\nPhilip flushed, he knew not why.\n\n\"Oh, it's awfully kind of you, but I don't think I'll do that.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\nPhilip did not answer. He had refused instinctively from fear that he\nwould be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting favours.\nHe knew besides that the Athelnys lived from hand to mouth, and with their\nlarge family had neither space nor money to entertain a stranger.\n\n\"Of course you must come here,\" said Athelny. \"Thorpe will tuck in with\none of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. You don't suppose your\nfood's going to make any difference to us.\"\n\nPhilip was afraid to speak, and Athelny, going to the door, called his\nwife.\n\n\"Betty,\" he said, when she came in, \"Mr. Carey's coming to live with us.\"\n\n\"Oh, that is nice,\" she said. \"I'll go and get the bed ready.\"\n\nShe spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for granted,\nthat Philip was deeply touched. He never expected people to be kind to\nhim, and when they were it surprised and moved him. Now he could not\nprevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. The Athelnys\ndiscussed the arrangements and pretended not to notice to what a state his\nweakness had brought him. When Mrs. Athelny left them Philip leaned back\nin his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little.\n\n\"It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?\"\n\n\n\nCII\n\n\nAthelny told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the\nlarge firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the\nassistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal\nhad promised to keep their places open for them. They put the work of the\nheroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the wages of\nthese were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy;\nbut the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays were\ncoming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time:\nthey were bound to engage more assistants. Philip's experience had made\nhim doubtful whether even then they would engage him; but Athelny,\nrepresenting himself as a person of consequence in the firm, insisted that\nthe manager could refuse him nothing. Philip, with his training in Paris,\nwould be very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was\nbound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw posters. Philip\nmade a poster for the summer sale and Athelny took it away. Two days later\nhe brought it back, saying that the manager admired it very much and\nregretted with all his heart that there was no vacancy just then in that\ndepartment. Philip asked whether there was nothing else he could do.\n\n\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure?\"\n\n\"Well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker tomorrow,\" said\nAthelny, looking at him doubtfully through his glasses.\n\n\"D'you think I stand any chance of getting it?\"\n\nAthelny was a little confused; he had led Philip to expect something much\nmore splendid; on the other hand he was too poor to go on providing him\nindefinitely with board and lodging.\n\n\"You might take it while you wait for something better. You always stand\na better chance if you're engaged by the firm already.\"\n\n\"I'm not proud, you know,\" smiled Philip.\n\n\"If you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine tomorrow\nmorning.\"\n\nNotwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in finding\nwork, for when Philip went to the shop many men were waiting already. He\nrecognised some whom he had seen in his own searching, and there was one\nwhom he had noticed lying about the park in the afternoon. To Philip now\nthat suggested that he was as homeless as himself and passed the night out\nof doors. The men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but\nevery one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the\nmanager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands.\nThey waited in a passage which Philip learnt afterwards led up to the\ndining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every few yards by five or\nsix steps. Though there was electric light in the shop here was only gas,\nwith wire cages over it for protection, and it flared noisily. Philip\narrived punctually, but it was nearly ten o'clock when he was admitted\ninto the office. It was three-cornered, like a cut of cheese lying on its\nside: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and two\nposter-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large stripes,\nand the other of a ship in full sail ploughing an azure sea: on the sail\nwas printed in large letters 'great white sale.' The widest side of the\noffice was the back of one of the shop-windows, which was being dressed at\nthe time, and an assistant went to and fro during the interview. The\nmanager was reading a letter. He was a florid man, with sandy hair and a\nlarge sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung a bunch of\nfootball medals. He sat in his shirt sleeves at a large desk with a\ntelephone by his side; before him were the day's advertisements, Athelny's\nwork, and cuttings from newspapers pasted on a card. He gave Philip a\nglance but did not speak to him; he dictated a letter to the typist, a\ngirl who sat at a small table in one corner; then he asked Philip his\nname, age, and what experience he had had. He spoke with a cockney twang\nin a high, metallic voice which he seemed not able always to control;\nPhilip noticed that his upper teeth were large and protruding; they gave\nyou the impression that they were loose and would come out if you gave\nthem a sharp tug.\n\n\"I think Mr. Athelny has spoken to you about me,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Oh, you are the young feller who did that poster?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"No good to us, you know, not a bit of good.\"\n\nHe looked Philip up and down. He seemed to notice that Philip was in some\nway different from the men who had preceded him.\n\n\"You'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. I suppose you 'aven't got one.\nYou seem a respectable young feller. I suppose you found art didn't pay.\"\n\nPhilip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. He threw\nremarks at him in a hostile way.\n\n\"Where's your home?\"\n\n\"My father and mother died when I was a child.\"\n\n\"I like to give young fellers a chance. Many's the one I've given their\nchance to and they're managers of departments now. And they're grateful to\nme, I'll say that for them. They know what I done for them. Start at the\nbottom of the ladder, that's the only way to learn the business, and then\nif you stick to it there's no knowing what it can lead to. If you suit,\none of these days you may find yourself in a position like what mine is.\nBear that in mind, young feller.\"\n\n\"I'm very anxious to do my best, sir,\" said Philip.\n\nHe knew that he must put in the sir whenever he could, but it sounded odd\nto him, and he was afraid of overdoing it. The manager liked talking. It\ngave him a happy consciousness of his own importance, and he did not give\nPhilip his decision till he had used a great many words.\n\n\"Well, I daresay you'll do,\" he said at last, in a pompous way. \"Anyhow I\ndon't mind giving you a trial.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much, sir.\"\n\n\"You can start at once. I'll give you six shillings a week and your keep.\nEverything found, you know; the six shillings is only pocket money, to do\nwhat you like with, paid monthly. Start on Monday. I suppose you've got no\ncause of complaint with that.\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Harrington Street, d'you know where that is, Shaftesbury Avenue. That's\nwhere you sleep. Number ten, it is. You can sleep there on Sunday night,\nif you like; that's just as you please, or you can send your box there on\nMonday.\" The manager nodded: \"Good-morning.\"\n\n\n\nCIII\n\n\nMrs. Athelny lent Philip money to pay his landlady enough of her bill to\nlet him take his things away. For five shillings and the pawn-ticket on a\nsuit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him\nfairly well. He redeemed the rest of his clothes. He sent his box to\nHarrington Street by Carter Patterson and on Monday morning went with\nAthelny to the shop. Athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes\nand left him. The buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named\nSampson; he shook hands with Philip, and, in order to show his own\naccomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke French.\nHe was surprised when Philip told him he did.\n\n\"Any other language?\"\n\n\"I speak German.\"\n\n\"Oh! I go over to Paris myself occasionally. Parlez-vous francais? Ever\nbeen to Maxim's?\"\n\nPhilip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the 'costumes.' His work\nconsisted in directing people to the various departments. There seemed a\ngreat many of them as Mr. Sampson tripped them off his tongue. Suddenly he\nnoticed that Philip limped.\n\n\"What's the matter with your leg?\" he asked.\n\n\"I've got a club-foot,\" said Philip. \"But it doesn't prevent my walking or\nanything like that.\"\n\nThe buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and Philip surmised that\nhe was wondering why the manager had engaged him. Philip knew that he had\nnot noticed there was anything the matter with him.\n\n\"I don't expect you to get them all correct the first day. If you're in\nany doubt all you've got to do is to ask one of the young ladies.\"\n\nMr. Sampson turned away; and Philip, trying to remember where this or the\nother department was, watched anxiously for the customer in search of\ninformation. At one o'clock he went up to dinner. The dining-room, on the\ntop floor of the vast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the\nwindows were shut to keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of\ncooking. There were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass\nbottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars and\nbottles of vinegar. The assistants crowded in noisily, and sat down on\nforms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty.\n\n\"No pickles,\" remarked the man next to Philip.\n\nHe was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty face; he had\na long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull had been pushed in here\nand there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spots red\nand inflamed. His name was Harris. Philip discovered that on some days\nthere were large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. They\nwere very popular. There were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large\nfat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them and\nthrew them loudly on the middle of the table. Each man took what he\nwanted; they were warm and greasy from recent washing in dirty water.\nPlates of meat swimming in gravy were handed round by boys in white\njackets, and as they flung each plate down with the quick gesture of a\nprestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. Then they\nbrought large dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned\nPhilip's stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of vinegar\nover them. The noise was awful. They talked and laughed and shouted, and\nthere was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating.\nPhilip was glad to get back into the department. He was beginning to\nremember where each one was, and had less often to ask one of the\nassistants, when somebody wanted to know the way.\n\n\"First to the right. Second on the left, madam.\"\n\nOne or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack,\nand he felt they were taking his measure. At five he was sent up again to\nthe dining-room for tea. He was glad to sit down. There were large slices\nof bread heavily spread with butter; and many had pots of jam, which were\nkept in the 'store' and had their names written on.\n\nPhilip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. Harris, the man\nhe had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over to Harrington\nStreet to show him where he was to sleep. He told Philip there was a spare\nbed in his room, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected Philip\nwould be put there. The house in Harrington Street had been a bootmaker's;\nand the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the\nwindow had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only\nventilation came from a small skylight at the far end. There was a musty\nsmell, and Philip was thankful that he would not have to sleep there.\nHarris took him up to the sitting-room, which was on the first floor; it\nhad an old piano in it with a keyboard that looked like a row of decayed\nteeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of\ndominoes; old numbers of The Strand Magazine and of The Graphic were\nlying about. The other rooms were used as bed-rooms. That in which Philip\nwas to sleep was at the top of the house. There were six beds in it, and\na trunk or a box stood by the side of each. The only furniture was a chest\nof drawers: it had four large drawers and two small ones, and Philip as\nthe new-comer had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were\nall alike they were not of much use, and Harris advised him to keep his\nvaluables in his trunk. There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece.\nHarris showed Philip the lavatory, which was a fairly large room with\neight basins in a row, and here all the inmates did their washing. It led\ninto another room in which were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork\nstained with soap; and in them were dark rings at various intervals which\nindicated the water marks of different baths.\n\nWhen Harris and Philip went back to their bed-room they found a tall man\nchanging his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as loud as he could\nwhile he brushed his hair. In a minute or two without saying a word to\nanybody the tall man went out. Harris winked at the boy, and the boy,\nwhistling still, winked back. Harris told Philip that the man was called\nPrior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty\nmuch to himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so\nmuch as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went out too, and only the\nboy remained to watch Philip curiously while he unpacked his things. His\nname was Bell and he was serving his time for nothing in the haberdashery.\nHe was much interested in Philip's evening clothes. He told him about the\nother men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself.\nHe was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a\nhalf-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. When Philip had finished\nhe went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally\nhe stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going\nin; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled\nalong. He had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned\nout the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he\nreturned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had\nto pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a\nquarter past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times\nyou were dismissed.\n\nAll but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in\nbed. Philip was greeted with cries.\n\n\"Oh, Clarence! Naughty boy!\"\n\nHe discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes.\nThe boy was delighted with his joke.\n\n\"You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence.\"\n\n\"He'll catch the belle of Lynn's, if he's not careful.\"\n\nPhilip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped\nfrom the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff. It\nwas only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the\nuse of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was\nstopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings\na week would never be paid to him.\n\nMost of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of\nbread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants' usual supper, were\nsupplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. The soldier\nrolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into\nbed. At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes\nlater went out. The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round\nthe big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of\ntheir sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to\nthem facetious remarks. The house opposite, six storeys high, was a\nworkshop for Jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were\nbrightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows. The sweater's\ndaughter--the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a\ngirl of twenty--went round the house to put out the lights when work was\nover, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the\ntailors. The shop assistants in Philip's room got a lot of amusement out\nof watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they\nmade small bets on which would succeed. At midnight the people were turned\nout of the Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they\nall went to bed: Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the\nroom by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not\nstop talking. At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of\nthe soldier, and Philip went to sleep.\n\nHe was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter to\neight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their stockinged\nfeet to pick out their boots. They laced them as they ran along to the\nshop in Oxford Street for breakfast. If they were a minute later than\neight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves\nanything to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the\nbuilding in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters and\nbought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food\ntill dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at\nhalf past eight began his day's work again.\n\n\"First to the right. Second on the left, madam.\"\n\nSoon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was\nmonotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that he\ncould hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night\nhis socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and his\nfellow 'floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the\ncontinual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion,\nand they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the\nbed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was obliged to\nspend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at Harrington Street\nwith his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion on these occasions\nwas Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the\nstamps he collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper\nhe whistled monotonously.\n\n\n\nCIV\n\n\nThe social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at the\nbeginning of Philip's second week at Lynn's. He arranged to go with one of\nthe women in his department.\n\n\"Meet 'em 'alf-way,\" she said, \"same as I do.\"\n\nThis was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed\nhair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over it,\nand yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip and\ncalled him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a week.\n\n\"We've both known what it is to come down,\" she said.\n\nShe told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always referred\nto \"me 'usband Misterodges;\" he was a barrister and he treated her simply\nshocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she\nhad known what it was to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called\neveryone dear--and they always had late dinner at home. She used to pick\nher teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. It was in the form of\na whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. Philip\nwas ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the girls in the shop called\nhim 'sidey.' One addressed him as Phil, and he did not answer because he\nhad not the least idea that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her\nhead, saying he was a 'stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical\nemphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a Miss Jewell, and she was going\nto marry a doctor. The other girls had never seen him, but they said he\nmust be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents.\n\n\"Never you mind what they say, dear,\" said Mrs. Hodges. \"I've 'ad to go\nthrough it same as you 'ave. They don't know any better, poor things. You\ntake my word for it, they'll like you all right if you 'old your own same\nas I 'ave.\"\n\nThe social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. The tables\nwere put on one side so that there might be room for dancing, and smaller\nones were set out for progressive whist.\n\n\"The 'eads 'ave to get there early,\" said Mrs. Hodges.\n\nShe introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn's. She was\nthe buyer in the 'Petticoats,' and when Philip entered was engaged in\nconversation with the buyer in the 'Gentlemen's Hosiery;' Miss Bennett was\na woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face heavily\npowdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged\nwith elaboration. She was overdressed, but not badly dressed, in black\nwith a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which she played\ncards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles on her\nwrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of Queen Alexandra;\nshe carried a black satin bag and chewed Sen-sens.\n\n\"Please to meet you, Mr. Carey,\" she said. \"This is your first visit to\nour social evenings, ain't it? I expect you feel a bit shy, but there's no\ncause to, I promise you that.\"\n\nShe did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them on the\nshoulders and laughed a great deal.\n\n\"Ain't I a pickle?\" she cried, turning to Philip. \"What must you think of\nme? But I can't 'elp meself.\"\n\nThose who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the\nyounger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their own,\nand girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. Several of the young\ngentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red silk\nhandkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy, abstracted\nair; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched\ntheir public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a great deal of\nhair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the keyboard. When\nthe audience had settled itself she looked round and gave the name of her\npiece.\n\n\"A Drive in Russia.\"\n\nThere was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to her\nwrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic melody.\nThere was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and when this was\nover, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the sea; there were\nlittle trills to represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with\nthe loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. After this a gentleman sang a\nsong called Bid me Good-bye, and as an encore obliged with Sing me to\nSleep. The audience measured their enthusiasm with a nice discrimination.\nEveryone was applauded till he gave an encore, and so that there might be\nno jealousy no one was applauded more than anyone else. Miss Bennett\nsailed up to Philip.\n\n\"I'm sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey,\" she said archly. \"I can see it in\nyour face.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I don't.\"\n\n\"Don't you even recite?\"\n\n\"I have no parlour tricks.\"\n\nThe buyer in the 'gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter, and he\nwas called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his department.\nNeeding no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic character, in which he\nrolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and acted as though he were in\ngreat agony. The point, that he had eaten cucumber for supper, was\ndivulged in the last line and was greeted with laughter, a little forced\nbecause everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. Miss Bennett did\nnot sing, play, or recite.\n\n\"Oh no, she 'as a little game of her own,\" said Mrs. Hodges.\n\n\"Now, don't you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a lot about\npalmistry and second sight.\"\n\n\"Oh, do tell my 'and, Miss Bennett,\" cried the girls in her department,\neager to please her.\n\n\"I don't like telling 'ands, I don't really. I've told people such\nterrible things and they've all come true, it makes one superstitious\nlike.\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once.\"\n\nA little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment,\ngiggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked\nmysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of journeys,\ntill the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face.\n\n\"Look at me,\" she said. \"I'm all of a perspiration.\"\n\nSupper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee,\nall free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it. Gallantry\noften led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but common decency\nmade them refuse. Miss Bennett was very fond of ginger beer, and she drank\ntwo and sometimes three bottles during the evening; but she insisted on\npaying for them herself. The men liked her for that.\n\n\"She's a rum old bird,\" they said, \"but mind you, she's not a bad sort,\nshe's not like what some are.\"\n\nAfter supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy, and there\nwas a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people moved from table to\ntable. Miss Bennett grew hotter and hotter.\n\n\"Look at me,\" she said. \"I'm all of a perspiration.\"\n\nIn due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if\nthey wanted to dance they'd better begin. The girl who had played the\naccompaniments sat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud\npedal. She played a dreamy waltz, marking the time with the bass, while\nwith the right hand she 'tiddled' in alternate octaves. By way of a change\nshe crossed her hands and played the air in the bass.\n\n\"She does play well, doesn't she?\" Mrs. Hodges remarked to Philip. \"And\nwhat's more she's never 'ad a lesson in 'er life; it's all ear.\"\n\nMiss Bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in the world.\nShe danced well, but very, very slowly, and an expression came into her\neyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. She talked breathlessly of\nthe floor and the heat and the supper. She said that the Portman Rooms had\nthe best floor in London and she always liked the dances there; they were\nvery select, and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you\ndidn't know anything about; why, you might be exposing yourself to you\ndidn't know what all. Nearly all the people danced very well, and they\nenjoyed themselves. Sweat poured down their faces, and the very high\ncollars of the young men grew limp.\n\nPhilip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he remembered\nto have felt for a long time. He felt intolerably alone. He did not go,\nbecause he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked with the girls\nand laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. Miss Bennett asked him if\nhe had a girl.\n\n\"No,\" he smiled.\n\n\"Oh, well, there's plenty to choose from here. And they're very nice\nrespectable girls, some of them. I expect you'll have a girl before you've\nbeen here long.\"\n\nShe looked at him very archly.\n\n\"Meet 'em 'alf-way,\" said Mrs. Hodges. \"That's what I tell him.\"\n\nIt was nearly eleven o'clock, and the party broke up. Philip could not get\nto sleep. Like the others he kept his aching feet outside the bed-clothes.\nHe tried with all his might not to think of the life he was leading. The\nsoldier was snoring quietly.\n\n\n\nCV\n\n\nThe wages were paid once a month by the secretary. On pay-day each batch\nof assistants, coming down from tea, went into the passage and joined the\nlong line of people waiting orderly like the audience in a queue outside\na gallery door. One by one they entered the office. The secretary sat at\na desk with wooden bowls of money in front of him, and he asked the\nemploye's name; he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspicious\nglance at the assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out of\nthe bowl counted it into his hand.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said. \"Next.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" was the reply.\n\nThe assistant passed on to the second secretary and before leaving the\nroom paid him four shillings for washing money, two shillings for the\nclub, and any fines that he might have incurred. With what he had left he\nwent back into his department and there waited till it was time to go.\nMost of the men in Philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold the\nsandwiches they generally ate for supper. She was a funny old thing, very\nfat, with a broad, red face, and black hair plastered neatly on each side\nof the forehead in the fashion shown in early pictures of Queen Victoria.\nShe always wore a little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves were\ntucked up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty, greasy\nhands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her apron, grease on\nher skirt. She was called Mrs. Fletcher, but everyone addressed her as\n'Ma'; she was really fond of the shop assistants, whom she called her\nboys; she never minded giving credit towards the end of the month, and it\nwas known that now and then she had lent someone or other a few shillings\nwhen he was in straits. She was a good woman. When they were leaving or\nwhen they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat red cheek;\nand more than one, dismissed and unable to find another job, had got for\nnothing food to keep body and soul together. The boys were sensible of her\nlarge heart and repaid her with genuine affection. There was a story they\nliked to tell of a man who had done well for himself at Bradford, and had\nfive shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and visited\nMa Fletcher and given her a gold watch.\n\nPhilip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his month's pay.\nIt was the first money he had ever earned in his life. It gave him none of\nthe pride which might have been expected, but merely a feeling of dismay.\nThe smallness of the sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. He\ntook fifteen shillings to Mrs. Athelny to pay back part of what he owed\nher, but she would not take more than half a sovereign.\n\n\"D'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle up with\nyou.\"\n\n\"As long as Athelny's in work I can afford to wait, and who knows, p'raps\nthey'll give you a rise.\"\n\nAthelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about Philip, it\nwas absurd that no use should be made of his talents; but he did nothing,\nand Philip soon came to the conclusion that the press-agent was not a\nperson of so much importance in the manager's eyes as in his own.\nOccasionally he saw Athelny in the shop. His flamboyance was extinguished;\nand in neat, commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuming\nlittle man, through the departments as though anxious to escape notice.\n\n\"When I think of how I'm wasted there,\" he said at home, \"I'm almost\ntempted to give in my notice. There's no scope for a man like me. I'm\nstunted, I'm starved.\"\n\nMrs. Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. Her mouth\ntightened a little.\n\n\"It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and it's safe; I\nexpect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction.\"\n\nIt was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see the\nascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, had\nacquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny treated Philip\nwith motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he was\ntouched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. It was the solace\nof his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what\nchiefly appalled him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendly\nhouse. It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all\nmanner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so desperate he\nnever left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling of\nexultation. At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned,\ntried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he\ncould not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day;\nand it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how\nlong he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed constantly\nthat he was in the wards. The awakening was painful. The sensation of\nother people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had\nbeen used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by\nhimself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. It was then\nthat he found it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himself\ngoing on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam,\nindefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the men\nwho had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed\nto take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he\nwould have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had.\n\nThere was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle.\nHe would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his\ncourse at the hospital. Philip began to wish with all his might for the\nold man's death. He reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he was\nwell over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at\nleast seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter\nhad a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over\nagain the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in\nthe old. A severe winter might be too much for the old man. With all his\nheart Philip longed for cold and rain. He thought of it constantly, so\nthat it became a monomania. Uncle William was affected by the great heat\ntoo, and in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather. Philip\nimagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying that\nthe Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable\nrelief. As he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the\ndepartments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantly\nwhat he would do with the money. He did not know how much it would be,\nperhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough.\nHe would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, he\nwould pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then he\nwould return to the hospital. That was the first thing. Would he have\nforgotten much? In six months he could get it all back, and then he would\ntake his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then\nmedicine and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle,\nnotwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the parish\nor the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could not be so cruel. But\nif that happened Philip was quite determined what to do, he would not go\non in that way indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he could\nlook forward to something better. If he had no hope he would have no fear.\nThe only brave thing to do then would be to commit suicide, and, thinking\nthis over too, Philip decided minutely what painless drug he would take\nand how he would get hold of it. It encouraged him to think that, if\nthings became unendurable, he had at all events a way out.\n\n\"Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on the left and\nstraight through. Mr. Philips, forward please.\"\n\nOnce a month, for a week, Philip was 'on duty.' He had to go to the\ndepartment at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the sweepers. When\nthey finished he had to take the sheets off the cases and the models.\nThen, in the evening when the assistants left, he had to put back the\nsheets on the models and the cases and 'gang' the sweepers again. It was\na dusty, dirty job. He was not allowed to read or write or smoke, but just\nhad to walk about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. When he went\noff at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the only\nconsolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite,\nand the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided, were\nwelcome.\n\nOne day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three months, Mr. Sampson, the\nbuyer, came into the department, fuming with anger. The manager, happening\nto notice the costume window as he came in, had sent for the buyer and\nmade satirical remarks upon the colour scheme. Forced to submit in silence\nto his superior's sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; and\nhe rated the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window.\n\n\"If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself,\" Mr. Sampson\nstormed. \"I've always said it and I always shall. One can't leave anything\nto you chaps. Intelligent you call yourselves, do you? Intelligent!\"\n\nHe threw the word at the assistants as though it were the bitterest term\nof reproach.\n\n\"Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window it'll kill\nall the other blues?\"\n\nHe looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell upon Philip.\n\n\"You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. Let's see what you can make\nof it.\"\n\nHe went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's heart sank. When\nFriday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense of\nshame. His cheeks were burning. It was horrible to display himself to the\npassers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to such\na feeling he turned his back to the street. There was not much chance that\nany of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford Street at that\nhour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, with\na huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch\nthe eye of some man he knew. He made all the haste he could. By the simple\nobservation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more\nthan was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer went\ninto the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased.\n\n\"I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window. The fact\nis, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn't say this in the\ndepartment, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells. It's no\ngood your telling me it doesn't tell, because I know it does tell.\"\n\nPhilip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself to\nthe publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on which the window was\ndressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o'clock and lie\nsleepless with sickness in his heart. The girls in the department noticed\nhis shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standing\nwith his back to the street. They laughed at him and called him 'sidey.'\n\n\"I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out of her\nwill.\"\n\nOn the whole he got on well enough with the girls. They thought him a\nlittle queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like the\nrest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured. He never\nminded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered.\n\n\"You can see he's a gentleman,\" they said.\n\n\"Very reserved, isn't he?\" said one young woman, to whose passionate\nenthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved.\n\nMost of them had 'fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had rather than\nhave it supposed that no one had an inclination for them. One or two\nshowed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with Philip, and he\nwatched their manoeuvres with grave amusement. He had had enough of\nlove-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and often\nhungry.\n\n\n\nCVI\n\n\nPhilip avoided the places he had known in happier times. The little\ngatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were broken up: Macalister, having\nlet down his friends, no longer went there, and Hayward was at the Cape.\nOnly Lawson remained; and Philip, feeling that now the painter and he had\nnothing in common, did not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon,\nafter dinner, having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to\ngo to the free library in St. Martin's Lane, meaning to spend the\nafternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him. His\nfirst instinct was to pass on without a word, but Lawson did not give him\nthe opportunity.\n\n\"Where on earth have you been all this time?\" he cried.\n\n\"I?\" said Philip.\n\n\"I wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for a beano and you never\neven answered.\"\n\n\"I didn't get your letter.\"\n\n\"No, I know. I went to the hospital to ask for you, and I saw my letter in\nthe rack. Have you chucked the Medical?\"\n\nPhilip hesitated for a moment. He was ashamed to tell the truth, but the\nshame he felt angered him, and he forced himself to speak. He could not\nhelp reddening.\n\n\"Yes, I lost the little money I had. I couldn't afford to go on with it.\"\n\n\"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What are you doing?\"\n\n\"I'm a shop-walker.\"\n\nThe words choked Philip, but he was determined not to shirk the truth. He\nkept his eyes on Lawson and saw his embarrassment. Philip smiled savagely.\n\n\"If you went into Lynn and Sedley, and made your way into the 'made robes'\ndepartment, you would see me in a frock coat, walking about with a\ndegage air and directing ladies who want to buy petticoats or stockings.\nFirst to the right, madam, and second on the left.\"\n\nLawson, seeing that Philip was making a jest of it, laughed awkwardly. He\ndid not know what to say. The picture that Philip called up horrified him,\nbut he was afraid to show his sympathy.\n\n\"That's a bit of a change for you,\" he said.\n\nHis words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he wished he had not said\nthem. Philip flushed darkly.\n\n\"A bit,\" he said. \"By the way, I owe you five bob.\"\n\nHe put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some silver.\n\n\"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'd forgotten all about it.\"\n\n\"Go on, take it.\"\n\nLawson received the money silently. They stood in the middle of the\npavement, and people jostled them as they passed. There was a sardonic\ntwinkle in Philip's eyes, which made the painter intensely uncomfortable,\nand he could not tell that Philip's heart was heavy with despair. Lawson\nwanted dreadfully to do something, but he did not know what to do.\n\n\"I say, won't you come to the studio and have a talk?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"There's nothing to talk about.\"\n\nHe saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could not help it, he was\nsorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear the thought of\ndiscussing his situation, he could endure it only by determining\nresolutely not to think about it. He was afraid of his weakness if once he\nbegan to open his heart. Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the\nplaces where he had been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had\nendured when he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for\nLawson to offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the\nfive shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he recalled\nthose days of utter abasement.\n\n\"Then look here, come and dine with me one night. Choose your own\nevening.\"\n\nPhilip was touched with the painter's kindness. All sorts of people were\nstrangely kind to him, he thought.\n\n\"It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather not.\" He held out his\nhand. \"Good-bye.\"\n\nLawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand,\nand Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy; and, as was usual\nwith him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not\nknow what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. But\nhe heard someone running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling\nhim; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of\nhim; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?\"\n\n\"I know he went to the Cape.\"\n\n\"He died, you know, soon after landing.\"\n\nFor a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his ears.\n\n\"How?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know. Gave me\na bit of a turn when I heard it.\"\n\nLawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass through\nhis heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death\nof Cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the\nnormal course of things. The news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded\nhim of his own mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly\nthat all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to\nhimself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm\nfeeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a sudden all the\ngood talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never\ntalk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the\npleasant months they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank\nas he thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not noticing\nwhere he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that\ninstead of turning down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury\nAvenue. It bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he\ndid not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his\nmind to go to the British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury. Since\nhe had been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the\ngroups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had allowed\ntheir divine masses to rest his troubled soul. But this afternoon they had\nnothing to say to him, and after a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered\nout of the room. There were too many people, provincials with foolish\nfaces, foreigners poring over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched\nthe everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's\nimmortal repose. He went into another room and here there was hardly\nanyone. Philip sat down wearily. His nerves were on edge. He could not get\nthe people out of his mind. Sometimes at Lynn's they affected him in the\nsame way, and he looked at them file past him with horror; they were so\nugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their\nfeatures were distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were\nstrange to any ideas of beauty. They had furtive eyes and weak chins.\nThere was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity. Their\nhumour was a low facetiousness. Sometimes he found himself looking at them\nto see what animal they resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became\nan obsession,) and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or\nthe goat. Human beings filled him with disgust.\n\nBut presently the influence of the place descended upon him. He felt\nquieter. He began to look absently at the tombstones with which the room\nwas lined. They were the work of Athenian stone masons of the fourth and\nfifth centuries before Christ, and they were very simple, work of no great\ntalent but with the exquisite spirit of Athens upon them; time had\nmellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so that unconsciously one\nthought of the bees of Hymettus, and softened their outlines. Some\nrepresented a nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the\ndead from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with one\nwho remained behind. On all was the tragic word farewell; that and nothing\nmore. Their simplicity was infinitely touching. Friend parted from friend,\nthe son from his mother, and the restraint made the survivor's grief more\npoignant. It was so long, long ago, and century upon century had passed\nover that unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust\nas those they wept for. Yet the woe was alive still, and it filled\nPhilip's heart so that he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said:\n\n\"Poor things, poor things.\"\n\nAnd it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat strangers with\ntheir guide-books, and all those mean, common people who thronged the\nshop, with their trivial desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must\ndie. They too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from his\nmother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because\ntheir lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave beauty\nto the world. There was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief\nof two young men holding each other's hand; and the reticence of line, the\nsimplicity, made one like to think that the sculptor here had been touched\nwith a genuine emotion. It was an exquisite memorial to that than which\nthe world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as\nPhilip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of\nHayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how\ndisillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them\ntogether but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of\nlife that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with\nhim that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation\ncame, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had\nseemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not\neven miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when\nHayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the\nfuture, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned\nhimself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his\nlife. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even\nat the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had\nnever lived.\n\nPhilip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all. It all\nseemed inane. It was the same with Cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that\nhe had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in\nremainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served\nnothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article\nin a review. And Philip cried out in his soul:\n\n\"What is the use of it?\"\n\nThe effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright hopes of\nyouth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. Pain\nand disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. What did it\nall mean? He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had\nentered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his\nfriendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth.\nHe did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do,\nand what a cropper he had come! Other men, with no more advantages than\nhe, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. It seemed pure\nchance. The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for\nnothing was there a why and a wherefore.\n\nThinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he had given\nhim, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the\nmeaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now\nthat he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till\nyou are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have\nescaped you. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth,\nsatellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under\nthe influence of conditions which were part of the planet's history; and\nas there had been a beginning of life upon it so, under the influence of\nother conditions, there would be an end: man, no more significant than\nother forms of life, had come not as the climax of creation but as a\nphysical reaction to the environment. Philip remembered the story of the\nEastern King who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a\nsage five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of state, he bade him go and\ncondense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his history now was in\nno more than fifty volumes, but the King, too old then to read so many\nponderous tomes, bade him go and shorten it once more; twenty years passed\nagain and the sage, old and gray, brought a single book in which was the\nknowledge the King had sought; but the King lay on his death-bed, and he\nhad no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the history of\nman in a single line; it was this: he was born, he suffered, and he died.\nThere was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end. It was\nimmaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to\nlive. Life was insignificant and death without consequence. Philip\nexulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in\nGod was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last burden\nof responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was\nutterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself\nsuddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for,\nif life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty. What he did\nor left undone did not matter. Failure was unimportant and success\namounted to nothing. He was the most inconsiderate creature in that\nswarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of\nthe earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the\nsecret of its nothingness. Thoughts came tumbling over one another in\nPhilip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction. He\nfelt inclined to leap and sing. He had not been so happy for months.\n\n\"Oh, life,\" he cried in his heart, \"Oh life, where is thy sting?\"\n\nFor the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the force of\nmathematical demonstration that life had no meaning, brought with it\nanother idea; and that was why Cronshaw, he imagined, had given him the\nPersian rug. As the weaver elaborated his pattern for no end but the\npleasure of his aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one\nwas forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so might\na man look at his life, that it made a pattern. There was as little need\nto do this as there was use. It was merely something he did for his own\npleasure. Out of the manifold events of his life, his deeds, his feelings,\nhis thoughts, he might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or\nbeautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that he had the\npower of selection, though it might be no more than a fantastic\nlegerdemain in which appearances were interwoven with moonbeams, that did\nnot matter: it seemed, and so to him it was. In the vast warp of life (a\nriver arising from no spring and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the\nbackground to his fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was\nimportant, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting the\nvarious strands that worked out the pattern. There was one pattern, the\nmost obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a man was born, grew to\nmanhood, married, produced children, toiled for his bread, and died; but\nthere were others, intricate and wonderful, in which happiness did not\nenter and in which success was not attempted; and in them might be\ndiscovered a more troubling grace. Some lives, and Hayward's was among\nthem, the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was still\nimperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did not matter;\nother lives, such as Cronshaw's, offered a pattern which was difficult to\nfollow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards had to be\naltered before one could understand that such a life was its own\njustification. Philip thought that in throwing over the desire for\nhappiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions. His life had\nseemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed\nto gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something\nelse. Happiness mattered as little as pain. They came in, both of them, as\nall the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the\ndesign. He seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his\nexistence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had\ndone before. Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add\nto the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would\nrejoice in its completion. It would be a work of art, and it would be none\nthe less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his\ndeath it would at once cease to be.\n\nPhilip was happy.\n\n\n\nCVII\n\n\nMr. Sampson, the buyer, took a fancy to Philip. Mr. Sampson was very\ndashing, and the girls in his department said they would not be surprised\nif he married one of the rich customers. He lived out of town and often\nimpressed the assistants by putting on his evening clothes in the office.\nSometimes he would be seen by those on sweeping duty coming in next\nmorning still dressed, and they would wink gravely to one another while he\nwent into his office and changed into a frock coat. On these occasions,\nhaving slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink at Philip\nas he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his hands.\n\n\"What a night! What a night!\" he said. \"My word!\"\n\nHe told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and Philip\nwere the only fellows who knew what life was. Having said this, he changed\nhis manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey instead of old boy, assumed\nthe importance due to his position as buyer, and put Philip back into his\nplace of shop-walker.\n\nLynn and Sedley received fashion papers from Paris once a week and adapted\nthe costumes illustrated in them to the needs of their customers. Their\nclientele was peculiar. The most substantial part consisted of women from\nthe smaller manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks\nmade locally and not sufficiently acquainted with London to discover good\ndressmakers within their means. Beside these, incongruously, was a large\nnumber of music-hall artistes. This was a connection that Mr. Sampson had\nworked up for himself and took great pride in. They had begun by getting\ntheir stage-costumes at Lynn's, and he had induced many of them to get\ntheir other clothes there as well.\n\n\"As good as Paquin and half the price,\" he said.\n\nHe had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which appealed to\ncustomers of this sort, and they said to one another:\n\n\"What's the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat and skirt\nat Lynn's that nobody knows don't come from Paris?\"\n\nMr. Sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular favourites\nwhose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner at two o'clock on\nSunday with Miss Victoria Virgo--\"she was wearing that powder blue we made\nher and I lay she didn't let on it come from us, I 'ad to tell her meself\nthat if I 'adn't designed it with my own 'ands I'd have said it must come\nfrom Paquin\"--at her beautiful house in Tulse Hill, he regaled the\ndepartment next day with abundant details. Philip had never paid much\nattention to women's clothes, but in course of time he began, a little\namused at himself, to take a technical interest in them. He had an eye for\ncolour which was more highly trained than that of anyone in the\ndepartment, and he had kept from his student days in Paris some knowledge\nof line. Mr. Sampson, an ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but\nwith a shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people's suggestions,\nconstantly asked the opinion of the assistants in his department in making\nup new designs; and he had the quickness to see that Philip's criticisms\nwere valuable. But he was very jealous, and would never allow that he took\nanyone's advice. When he had altered some drawing in accordance with\nPhilip's suggestion, he always finished up by saying:\n\n\"Well, it comes round to my own idea in the end.\"\n\nOne day, when Philip had been at the shop for five months, Miss Alice\nAntonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to see Mr. Sampson.\nShe was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a boldly painted face, a\nmetallic voice, and the breezy manner of a comedienne accustomed to be on\nfriendly terms with the gallery boys of provincial music-halls. She had a\nnew song and wished Mr. Sampson to design a costume for her.\n\n\"I want something striking,\" she said. \"I don't want any old thing you\nknow. I want something different from what anybody else has.\"\n\nMr. Sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they could get\nher the very thing she required. He showed her sketches.\n\n\"I know there's nothing here that would do, but I just want to show you\nthe kind of thing I would suggest.\"\n\n\"Oh no, that's not the sort of thing at all,\" she said, as she glanced at\nthem impatiently. \"What I want is something that'll just hit 'em in the\njaw and make their front teeth rattle.\"\n\n\"Yes, I quite understand, Miss Antonia,\" said the buyer, with a bland\nsmile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid.\n\n\"I expect I shall 'ave to pop over to Paris for it in the end.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think we can give you satisfaction, Miss Antonia. What you can get\nin Paris you can get here.\"\n\nWhen she had swept out of the department Mr. Sampson, a little worried,\ndiscussed the matter with Mrs. Hodges.\n\n\"She's a caution and no mistake,\" said Mrs. Hodges.\n\n\"Alice, where art thou?\" remarked the buyer, irritably, and thought he had\nscored a point against her.\n\nHis ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short skirts, a\nswirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but Miss Antonia had expressed\nherself on that subject in no uncertain terms.\n\n\"Oh, my aunt!\" she said.\n\nAnd the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a rooted\nantipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not added that\nsequins gave her the sick. Mr. Sampson 'got out' one or two ideas, but\nMrs. Hodges told him frankly she did not think they would do. It was she\nwho gave Philip the suggestion:\n\n\"Can you draw, Phil? Why don't you try your 'and and see what you can do?\"\n\nPhilip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening while Bell,\nthe noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes, busied himself with his\nstamps, he made one or two sketches. He remembered some of the costumes he\nhad seen in Paris, and he adapted one of them, getting his effect from a\ncombination of violent, unusual colours. The result amused him and next\nmorning he showed it to Mrs. Hodges. She was somewhat astonished, but took\nit at once to the buyer.\n\n\"It's unusual,\" he said, \"there's no denying that.\"\n\nIt puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it would\nmake up admirably. To save his face he began making suggestions for\naltering it, but Mrs. Hodges, with more sense, advised him to show it to\nMiss Antonia as it was.\n\n\"It's neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it.\"\n\n\"It's a good deal more nothing than neck,\" said Mr. Sampson, looking at\nthe decolletage. \"He can draw, can't he? Fancy 'im keeping it dark all\nthis time.\"\n\nWhen Miss Antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on the table\nin such a position that it must catch her eye the moment she was shown\ninto his office. She pounced on it at once.\n\n\"What's that?\" she said. \"Why can't I 'ave that?\"\n\n\"That's just an idea we got out for you,\" said Mr. Sampson casually.\n\"D'you like it?\"\n\n\"Do I like it!\" she said. \"Give me 'alf a pint with a little drop of gin\nin it.\"\n\n\"Ah, you see, you don't have to go to Paris. You've only got to say what\nyou want and there you are.\"\n\nThe work was put in hand at once, and Philip felt quite a thrill of\nsatisfaction when he saw the costume completed. The buyer and Mrs. Hodges\ntook all the credit of it; but he did not care, and when he went with them\nto the Tivoli to see Miss Antonia wear it for the first time he was filled\nwith elation. In answer to her questions he at last told Mrs. Hodges how\nhe had learnt to draw--fearing that the people he lived with would think\nhe wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to say\nnothing about his past occupations--and she repeated the information to\nMr. Sampson. The buyer said nothing to him on the subject, but began to\ntreat him a little more deferentially and presently gave him designs to do\nfor two of the country customers. They met with satisfaction. Then he\nbegan to speak to his clients of a \"clever young feller, Paris\nart-student, you know,\" who worked for him; and soon Philip, ensconced\nbehind a screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till\nnight. Sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three with the\n'stragglers.' He liked it, because there were few of them and they were\nall too tired to talk; the food also was better, for it consisted of what\nwas left over from the buyers' table. Philip's rise from shop-walker to\ndesigner of costumes had a great effect on the department. He realised\nthat he was an object of envy. Harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped\nhead, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had attached\nhimself to Philip, could not conceal his bitterness.\n\n\"Some people 'ave all the luck,\" he said. \"You'll be a buyer yourself one\nof these days, and we shall all be calling you sir.\"\n\nHe told Philip that he should demand higher wages, for notwithstanding the\ndifficult work he was now engaged in, he received no more than the six\nshillings a week with which he started. But it was a ticklish matter to\nask for a rise. The manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such\napplicants.\n\n\"Think you're worth more, do you? How much d'you think you're worth, eh?\"\n\nThe assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that he thought\nhe ought to have another two shillings a week.\n\n\"Oh, very well, if you think you're worth it. You can 'ave it.\" Then he\npaused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: \"And you can 'ave your\nnotice too.\"\n\nIt was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. The manager's\nidea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not work properly, and\nif they were not worth a rise it was better to sack them at once. The\nresult was that they never asked for one unless they were prepared to\nleave. Philip hesitated. He was a little suspicious of the men in his room\nwho told him that the buyer could not do without him. They were decent\nfellows, but their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed\nfunny to them if they had persuaded Philip to ask for more wages and he\nwere sacked. He could not forget the mortification he had suffered in\nlooking for work, he did not wish to expose himself to that again, and he\nknew there was small chance of his getting elsewhere a post as designer:\nthere were hundreds of people about who could draw as well as he. But he\nwanted money very badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets\nrotted his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the\nventuresome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in the\nbasement through the passage that led to the manager's office, he saw a\nqueue of men waiting in answer to an advertisement. There were about a\nhundred of them, and whichever was engaged would be offered his keep and\nthe same six shillings a week that Philip had. He saw some of them cast\nenvious glances at him because he had employment. It made him shudder. He\ndared not risk it.\n\n\n\nCVIII\n\n\nThe winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hospital, slinking in\nwhen it was late and there was little chance of meeting anyone he knew, to\nsee whether there were letters for him. At Easter he received one from his\nuncle. He was surprised to hear from him, for the Vicar of Blackstable had\nnever written him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, and\nthey were on business matters.\n\n\nDear Philip,\n\nIf you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come down here I\nshall be pleased to see you. I was very ill with my bronchitis in the\nwinter and Doctor Wigram never expected me to pull through. I have a\nwonderful constitution and I made, thank God, a marvellous recovery.\n                                            Yours affectionately,\n                                                           William Carey.\n\n\nThe letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think he was living? He\ndid not even trouble to inquire. He might have starved for all the old man\ncared. But as he walked home something struck him; he stopped under a\nlamp-post and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer the\nbusiness-like firmness which had characterised it; it was larger and\nwavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing to\nconfess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning to see\nthe only relation he had in the world. Philip wrote back that he could\ncome down to Blackstable for a fortnight in July. The invitation was\nconvenient, for he had not known what to do, with his brief holiday. The\nAthelnys went hopping in September, but he could not then be spared, since\nduring that month the autumn models were prepared. The rule of Lynn's was\nthat everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; and\nduring that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might sleep in\nhis room, but he was not allowed food. A number had no friends within\nreasonable distance of London, and to these the holiday was an awkward\ninterval when they had to provide food out of their small wages and, with\nthe whole day on their hands, had nothing to spend. Philip had not been\nout of London since his visit to Brighton with Mildred, now two years\nbefore, and he longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. He thought\nof it with such a passionate desire, all through May and June, that, when\nat length the time came for him to go, he was listless.\n\nOn his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two jobs he\nhad to leave over, Mr. Sampson suddenly said to him:\n\n\"What wages have you been getting?\"\n\n\"Six shillings.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's enough. I'll see that you're put up to twelve when you\ncome back.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" smiled Philip. \"I'm beginning to want some new\nclothes badly.\"\n\n\"If you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the girls like\nwhat some of them do, I'll look after you, Carey. Mind you, you've got a\nlot to learn, but you're promising, I'll say that for you, you're\npromising, and I'll see that you get a pound a week as soon as you deserve\nit.\"\n\nPhilip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. Two years?\n\nHe was startled at the change in his uncle. When last he had seen him he\nwas a stout man, who held himself upright, clean-shaven, with a round,\nsensual face; but he had fallen in strangely, his skin was yellow; there\nwere great bags under the eyes, and he was bent and old. He had grown a\nbeard during his last illness, and he walked very slowly.\n\n\"I'm not at my best today,\" he said when Philip, having just arrived, was\nsitting with him in the dining-room. \"The heat upsets me.\"\n\nPhilip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him and wondered\nhow much longer he could last. A hot summer would finish him; Philip\nnoticed how thin his hands were; they trembled. It meant so much to\nPhilip. If he died that summer he could go back to the hospital at the\nbeginning of the winter session; his heart leaped at the thought of\nreturning no more to Lynn's. At dinner the Vicar sat humped up on his\nchair, and the housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's death\nsaid:\n\n\"Shall Mr. Philip carve, sir?\"\n\nThe old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to confess\nhis weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to relinquish the\nattempt.\n\n\"You've got a very good appetite,\" said Philip.\n\n\"Oh yes, I always eat well. But I'm thinner than when you were here last.\nI'm glad to be thinner, I didn't like being so fat. Dr. Wigram thinks I'm\nall the better for being thinner than I was.\"\n\nWhen dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine.\n\n\"Show the prescription to Master Philip,\" he said. \"He's a doctor too. I'd\nlike him to see that he thinks it's all right. I told Dr. Wigram that now\nyou're studying to be a doctor he ought to make a reduction in his\ncharges. It's dreadful the bills I've had to pay. He came every day for\ntwo months, and he charges five shillings a visit. It's a lot of money,\nisn't it? He comes twice a week still. I'm going to tell him he needn't\ncome any more. I'll send for him if I want him.\"\n\nHe looked at Philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions. They were\nnarcotics. There were two of them, and one was a medicine which the Vicar\nexplained he was to use only if his neuritis grew unendurable.\n\n\"I'm very careful,\" he said. \"I don't want to get into the opium habit.\"\n\nHe did not mention his nephew's affairs. Philip fancied that it was by way\nof precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling on\nthe financial calls upon him. He had spent so much on the doctor and so\nmuch more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fire\nevery day in his bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go to\nchurch in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrily\ninclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow from\nhim, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that everything had left the\nold man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire for\nmoney. It was a hideous old age.\n\nIn the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip walked with\nhim to the garden gate.\n\n\"How d'you think he is?\" said Philip.\n\nDr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he never\nhazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He had practised at\nBlackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had the reputation of being very\nsafe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor should\nbe safe than clever. There was a new man at Blackstable--he had been\nsettled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an\ninterloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not much\npractice among the better people, because no one really knew anything\nabout him.\n\n\"Oh, he's as well as can be expected,\" said Dr. Wigram in answer to\nPhilip's inquiry.\n\n\"Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?\"\n\n\"Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man,\" said the doctor with\na cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the Vicar of\nBlackstable was not an old man either.\n\n\"He seems to think his heart's in a bad way.\"\n\n\"I'm not satisfied with his heart,\" hazarded the doctor, \"I think he\nshould be careful, very careful.\"\n\nOn the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can he\nlive? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a periphrase was\ndemanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another question\ninstead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to the\nimpatience of a sick man's relatives. He must see through their\nsympathetic expressions. Philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy,\ncast down his eyes.\n\n\"I suppose he's in no immediate danger?\"\n\nThis was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a patient\ncouldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a bereavement,\nand if then the patient lived on they visited the medical attendant with\nthe resentment they felt at having tormented themselves before it was\nnecessary. On the other hand, if you said the patient might live a year\nand he died in a week the family said you did not know your business. They\nthought of all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct if\nthey had known the end was so near. Dr. Wigram made the gesture of washing\nhis hands.\n\n\"I don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as he is,\" he\nventured at last. \"But on the other hand, we mustn't forget that he's no\nlonger a young man, and well, the machine is wearing out. If he gets over\nthe hot weather I don't see why he shouldn't get on very comfortably till\nthe winter, and then if the winter does not bother him too much, well, I\ndon't see why anything should happen.\"\n\nPhilip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting. With his\nskull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he looked grotesque. His\neyes had been fixed on the door, and they rested on Philip's face as he\nentered. Philip saw that his uncle had been waiting anxiously for his\nreturn.\n\n\"Well, what did he say about me?\"\n\nPhilip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of dying. It\nmade Philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away involuntarily. He was\nalways embarrassed by the weakness of human nature.\n\n\"He says he thinks you're much better,\" said Philip.\n\nA gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes.\n\n\"I've got a wonderful constitution,\" he said. \"What else did he say?\" he\nadded suspiciously.\n\nPhilip smiled.\n\n\"He said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why you\nshouldn't live to be a hundred.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I can expect to do that, but I don't see why I\nshouldn't see eighty. My mother lived till she was eighty-four.\"\n\nThere was a little table by the side of Mr. Carey's chair, and on it were\na Bible and the large volume of the Common Prayer from which for so many\nyears he had been accustomed to read to his household. He stretched out\nnow his shaking hand and took his Bible.\n\n\"Those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't they?\" he\nsaid, with a queer little laugh in which Philip read a sort of timid\nappeal.\n\nThe old man clung to life. Yet he believed implicitly all that his\nreligion taught him. He had no doubt in the immortality of the soul, and\nhe felt that he had conducted himself well enough, according to his\ncapacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. In his long\ncareer to how many dying persons must he have administered the\nconsolations of religion! Perhaps he was like the doctor who could get no\nbenefit from his own prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by that\neager cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at the\nback of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe into his soul so\nthat he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknown\nwhich he suspected.\n\nThe fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He passed a\nsweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in\nhis shirt sleeves. The assistants in relays went for their holidays. In\nthe evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band.\nGrowing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind,\nrecovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. His whole\ndesire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on dreaming the same\ndream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced\nthe Vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke and\nfound it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. He\noccupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time,\nwith elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over the\nyear which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified\nand dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set. He read\nbooks about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and\nalready he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. He\nsaw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the\nGaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat in\nchurches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt the\nmysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into his humour, and on\nSunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philip\nshould miss nothing that was noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philip\nbegan to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in\nHarrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises\nand puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificent\nphrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philip\nlearned a few sentences to help him on his journey. Mrs. Athelny laughed\nat them.\n\n\"You two and your Spanish!\" she said. \"Why don't you do something useful?\"\n\nBut Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at Christmas,\nstood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father and\nPhilip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand. She thought\nher father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressed\nher opinion of Philip only through her father's commendations.\n\n\"Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip,\" she remarked to her\nbrothers and sisters.\n\nThorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa, and Athelny\nregaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the lad\nwould make when he came back in uniform for his holidays. As soon as Sally\nwas seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker. Athelny in his\nrhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were\nleaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the\nnest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it. A shakedown\nand a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would never\nbe closed to the troubles of his children.\n\n\"You do talk, Athelny,\" said his wife. \"I don't know what trouble they're\nlikely to get into so long as they're steady. So long as you're honest and\nnot afraid of work you'll never be out of a job, that's what I think, and\nI can tell you I shan't be sorry when I see the last of them earning their\nown living.\"\n\nChild-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell on\nMrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she had\nto sit down and rest herself. Her ideal of happiness was to have a girl to\ndo the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven.\nAthelny waved his beautiful white hand.\n\n\"Ah, my Betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and I. We've reared\nnine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girls\nshall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children.\" He turned to\nSally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast added\ngrandiloquently: \"They also serve who only stand and wait.\"\n\nAthelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories he\nvehemently believed in, and he stated now:\n\n\"In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I, Betty.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, I've got no patience with\nthem,\" she cried. \"It only means that another lot of lazy loafers will\nmake a good thing out of the working classes. My motto is, leave me alone;\nI don't want anyone interfering with me; I'll make the best of a bad job,\nand the devil take the hindmost.\"\n\n\"D'you call life a bad job?\" said Athelny. \"Never! We've had our ups and\ndowns, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's been\nworth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when I look round at my\nchildren.\"\n\n\"You do talk, Athelny,\" she said, looking at him, not with anger but with\nscornful calm. \"You've had the pleasant part of the children, I've had the\nbearing of them, and the bearing with them. I don't say that I'm not fond\nof them, now they're there, but if I had my time over again I'd remain\nsingle. Why, if I'd remained single I might have a little shop by now, and\nfour or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work.\nOh, I wouldn't go over my life again, not for something.\"\n\nPhilip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more than\nunending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted in\nthe same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons. Fury seized him\nbecause it all seemed useless. He could not reconcile himself to the\nbelief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all his\nthoughts, added to the force of his conviction. But though fury seized him\nit was a joyful fury. Life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and\nhe faced it with a strange sense of power.\n\n\n\nCIX\n\n\nThe autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his address with Mrs.\nFoster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might communicate with him,\nbut still went once a week to the hospital on the chance of there being a\nletter. One evening he saw his name on an envelope in a handwriting he had\nhoped never to see again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little while\nhe could not bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hateful\nmemories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open the\nenvelope.\n\n                                              7 William Street,\n                                                   Fitzroy Square.\n\nDear Phil,\n\nCan I see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. I am in awful\ntrouble and don't know what to do. It's not money.\n\n                                                 Yours truly,\n                                                         Mildred.\n\n\nHe tore the letter into little bits and going out into the street\nscattered them in the darkness.\n\n\"I'll see her damned,\" he muttered.\n\nA feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her again.\nHe did not care if she was in distress, it served her right whatever it\nwas, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had for her\naroused his loathing. His recollections filled him with nausea, and as he\nwalked across the Thames he drew himself aside in an instinctive\nwithdrawal from his thought of her. He went to bed, but he could not\nsleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could not get out\nof his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not have\nwritten to him unless she were desperate. He was angry with himself for\nhis weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw her.\nNext morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way to the shop.\nHe made it as stiff as he could and said merely that he was sorry she was\nin difficulties and would come to the address she had given at seven\no'clock that evening.\n\nIt was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when, sick\nat the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild hope\nseized him that she had left. It looked the sort of place people moved in\nand out of frequently. He had not thought of looking at the postmark on\nher letter and did not know how many days it had lain in the rack. The\nwoman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silently\npreceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the back.\n\n\"Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you,\" she called.\n\nThe door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out suspiciously.\n\n\"Oh, it's you,\" she said. \"Come in.\"\n\nHe walked in and she closed the door. It was a very small bed-room, untidy\nas was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on the floor,\nlying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the chest of\ndrawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on the table.\nPhilip looked for somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind the door were\nladen with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem.\n\n\"Sit down, won't you?\" she said. Then she gave a little awkward laugh. \"I\nsuppose you were surprised to hear from me again.\"\n\n\"You're awfully hoarse,\" he answered. \"Have you got a sore throat?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have had for some time.\"\n\nHe did not say anything. He waited for her to explain why she wanted to\nsee him. The look of the room told him clearly enough that she had gone\nback to the life from which he had taken her. He wondered what had\nhappened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the chimney-piece,\nbut no sign in the room that a child was ever there. Mildred was holding\nher handkerchief. She made it into a little ball, and passed it from hand\nto hand. He saw that she was very nervous. She was staring at the fire,\nand he could look at her without meeting her eyes. She was much thinner\nthan when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was drawn\nmore tightly over her cheekbones. She had dyed her hair and it was now\nflaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look more vulgar.\n\n\"I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you,\" she said at last. \"I\nthought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any more.\"\n\nPhilip did not speak.\n\n\"I suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"How's that?\"\n\n\"I'm no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up eighteen months ago.\"\n\n\"You are changeable. You don't seem as if you could stick to anything.\"\n\nPhilip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with\ncoldness.\n\n\"I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn't\nafford to go on with the medical. I had to earn my living as best I\ncould.\"\n\n\"What are you doing then?\"\n\n\"I'm in a shop.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\nShe gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. He thought\nthat she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief.\n\n\"You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?\" She jerked the words\nout quite oddly.\n\n\"Not entirely.\"\n\n\"Because that's why I wanted to see you.\" Her voice sank to a hoarse\nwhisper. \"I don't know what's the matter with me.\"\n\n\"Why don't you go to a hospital?\"\n\n\"I don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and\nI'm afraid they'd want to keep me.\"\n\n\"What are you complaining of?\" asked Philip coldly, with the stereotyped\nphrase used in the out-patients' room.\n\n\"Well, I've come out in a rash, and I can't get rid of it.\"\n\nPhilip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his\nforehead.\n\n\"Let me look at your throat?\"\n\nHe took her over to the window and made such examination as he could.\nSuddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It\nwas horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her;\nshe looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but\nwith all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her.\n\n\"I'm afraid you're very ill indeed,\" he said.\n\n\"What d'you think it is?\"\n\nWhen he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned, yellow.\nshe began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with choking sobs.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry,\" he said at last. \"But I had to tell you.\"\n\n\"I may just as well kill myself and have done with it.\"\n\nHe took no notice of the threat.\n\n\"Have you got any money?\" he asked.\n\n\"Six or seven pounds.\"\n\n\"You must give up this life, you know. Don't you think you could find some\nwork to do? I'm afraid I can't help you much. I only get twelve bob a\nweek.\"\n\n\"What is there I can do now?\" she cried impatiently.\n\n\"Damn it all, you MUST try to get something.\"\n\nHe spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger\nto which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried to\nconsole her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she\npromised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he said he\nwould leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the\nnecessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up to\ngo, he held out his hand.\n\n\"Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat.\"\n\nBut as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of\nhis coat.\n\n\"Oh, don't leave me,\" she cried hoarsely. \"I'm so afraid, don't leave me\nalone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else I can go to, you're the only\nfriend I've ever had.\"\n\nHe felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he\nhad seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. Philip\nlooked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made him\nwretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his\nheart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her\nletter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons.\n\n\"I suppose I shall never really quite get over it,\" he said to himself.\n\nWhat perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which\nmade it uncomfortable for him to be near her.\n\n\"What do you want me to do?\" he asked.\n\n\"Let's go out and dine together. I'll pay.\"\n\nHe hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back again into his life when\nhe thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with sickening\nanxiety.\n\n\"Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now.\nYou've had your revenge. If you leave me by myself now I don't know what\nI shall do.\"\n\n\"All right, I don't mind,\" he said, \"but we shall have to do it on the\ncheap, I haven't got money to throw away these days.\"\n\nShe sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a\nhat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the\nTottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at those\nhours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. They\nhad a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat opposite\none another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she\nremembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in\nsilence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light of\nthe restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an\nendless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to know\nabout the child, but he had not the courage to ask. At last she said:\n\n\"You know baby died last summer.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" he said.\n\n\"You might say you're sorry.\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" he answered, \"I'm very glad.\"\n\nShe glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away\n\n\"You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? I always thought it\nfunny like how you could see so much in another man's child.\"\n\nWhen they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the\nmedicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her\ntake a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go back\nto Harrington Street. He was hideously bored.\n\nPhilip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had prescribed\nand followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that\nshe gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better\nshe grew less despondent. She talked more freely.\n\n\"As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right,\" she said. \"I've had my\nlesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yours\ntruly.\"\n\nEach time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told\nhim not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it;\nshe had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do\nanything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of that\ntime he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more\ncheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories\nof the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some\neating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite was\nfixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the\nfollowing week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to\ntake something unsuitable.\n\n\"It's absurd to talk like that,\" he said impatiently. \"You must take\nanything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last for\never.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it.\"\n\nHe looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and\nshe had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He remembered\nsome of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wondered\nwhether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying\nto him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted\nso long.\n\n\"What is your rent here?\"\n\n\"Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's\nquite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay.\"\n\nHe was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It was\nno use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must\nfind out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at\neight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to\nHarrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so\nthat he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him\nthat he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going\naway, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7\nopened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched\nher walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it\nwhich he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too\nshowy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed her\nslowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened\nher pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and\ncrossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the\narm. He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.\n\n\"Where are you going, Mildred?\"\n\nShe started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when\nshe was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well\ncame into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse.\nBut she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue.\n\n\"Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting every\nnight by myself.\"\n\nHe did not pretend to believe her.\n\n\"You mustn't. Good heavens, I've told you fifty times how dangerous it is.\nYou must stop this sort of thing at once.\"\n\n\"Oh, hold your jaw,\" she cried roughly. \"How d'you suppose I'm going to\nlive?\"\n\nHe took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to\ndrag her away.\n\n\"For God's sake come along. Let me take you home. You don't know what\nyou're doing. It's criminal.\"\n\n\"What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven't been so good to\nme that I need bother my head about them.\"\n\nShe pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money.\nPhilip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He turned away\nand walked slowly down Oxford Street.\n\n\"I can't do anything more,\" he said to himself.\n\nThat was the end. He did not see her again.\n\n\n\nCX\n\n\nChristmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four\ndays: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for\nhim to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs.\nFoster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but\nwished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip\nat the door, and when she shook hands with him, said:\n\n\"You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend\nyou don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about\nhimself.\"\n\nPhilip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room.\n\n\"Here's Mr. Philip, sir.\"\n\nThe Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when\nyou looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in\nthe arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his\nshoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands\ntrembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty.\n\n\"He can't last long now,\" thought Philip, as he looked at him.\n\n\"How d'you think I'm looking?\" asked the Vicar. \"D'you think I've changed\nsince you were here last?\"\n\n\"I think you look stronger than you did last summer.\"\n\n\"It was the heat. That always upsets me.\"\n\nMr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of\nweeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent\ndownstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it\nfor Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to\nask on what day of the month he had first left his room.\n\n\"On the seventh of November, sir.\"\n\nMr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information.\n\n\"But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite.\"\n\n\"I don't seem to put on flesh though.\"\n\nNothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing\nindomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony\nof his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he\nwas under the influence of morphia.\n\n\"It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills.\" He\ntinkled his bell again. \"Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's\nbill.\"\n\nPatiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip.\n\n\"That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself\nyou couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from\nthe stores, but then there's the postage.\"\n\nThough apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble\nto inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked\nhow long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesday\nmorning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told\nhim minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of\nhim. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said:\n\n\"Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were.\"\n\nWhen she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if he was\nnot certain that Mrs. Foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what to\ndo with him if anything happened. Philip, seeing that she was tired and\nthat her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was working\nher too hard.\n\n\"Oh, nonsense,\" said the Vicar, \"she's as strong as a horse.\" And when\nnext she came in to give him his medicine he said to her:\n\n\"Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs. Foster. You like\nlooking after me, don't you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can.\"\n\nPresently the medicine took effect and Mr. Carey fell asleep. Philip went\ninto the kitchen and asked Mrs. Foster whether she could stand the work.\nHe saw that for some months she had had little peace.\n\n\"Well, sir, what can I do?\" she answered. \"The poor old gentleman's so\ndependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't help\nliking him, can you? I've been here so many years now, I don't know what\nI shall do when he comes to go.\"\n\nPhilip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed and dressed\nhim, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; for\nshe slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled his\nlittle bell till she came in. He might die at any moment, but he might\nlive for months. It was wonderful that she should look after a stranger\nwith such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she\nshould be alone in the world to care for him.\n\nIt seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his\nlife was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday the\ncurate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read his\nBible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believed\nthat it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter\nupon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and having given up\nthe hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in the\nhands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew.\n\nIn Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware\nthat his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered\nwhether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself\nout, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of\nhis soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent,\nwas the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing.\n\nOn the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle.\nHe had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop by\nnine, and he was to say good-night to Mr. Carey then. The Vicar of\nBlackstable was dozing and Philip, lying on the sofa by the window, let\nhis book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. He asked\nhimself how much the furniture would fetch. He had walked round the house\nand looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few\npieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip wondered if\nit would be worth while to take them up to London; but the furniture was\nof the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for\nnothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, but\neveryone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would\nfetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle\nwould leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least\nsum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his\ndegree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital\nappointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no\nhumanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer\nanimal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life.\nHe had thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle the\nmedicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: one\ncontained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the\npain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by his\nbed-side. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It would\nbe a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no\none would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to\ndie. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought of\nthe money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched life\ncould matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant\neverything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he\nthought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. His\nheart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made\nan effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so\ndesperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked\nhim; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him,\nindifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel\nman, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be\neasy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it\nwould be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had\ndone. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there\nwere certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. He\nwished they were not on his conscience.\n\nHis uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a little more\nhuman then. He was frankly horrified at the idea that had come to him, it\nwas murder that he was meditating; and he wondered if other people had\nsuch thoughts or whether he was abnormal and depraved. He supposed he\ncould not have done it when it came to the point, but there the thought\nwas, constantly recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. His uncle\nspoke.\n\n\"You're not looking forward to my death, Philip?\" Philip felt his heart\nbeat against his chest.\n\n\"Good heavens, no.\"\n\n\"That's a good boy. I shouldn't like you to do that. You'll get a little\nbit of money when I pass away, but you mustn't look forward to it. It\nwouldn't profit you if you did.\"\n\nHe spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone. It\nsent a pang into Philip's heart. He wondered what strange insight might\nhave led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in Philip's\nmind.\n\n\"I hope you'll live for another twenty years,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, well, I can't expect to do that, but if I take care of myself I don't\nsee why I shouldn't last another three or four.\"\n\nHe was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say. Then, as if he\nhad been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again.\n\n\"Everyone has the right to live as long as he can.\"\n\nPhilip wanted to distract his mind.\n\n\"By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?\"\n\n\"Yes, I had a letter some time this year. She's married, you know.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Yes, she married a widower. I believe they're quite comfortable.\"\n\n\n\nCXI\n\n\nNext day Philip began work again, but the end which he expected within a\nfew weeks did not come. The weeks passed into months. The winter wore\naway, and in the parks the trees burst into bud and into leaf. A terrible\nlassitude settled upon Philip. Time was passing, though it went with such\nheavy feet, and he thought that his youth was going and soon he would have\nlost it and nothing would have been accomplished. His work seemed more\naimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it. He became\nskilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had no inventive\nfaculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of French fashions to the\nEnglish market. Sometimes he was not displeased with his drawings, but\nthey always bungled them in the execution. He was amused to notice that he\nsuffered from a lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately\ncarried out. He had to walk warily. Whenever he suggested something\noriginal Mr. Sampson turned it down: their customers did not want anything\noutre, it was a very respectable class of business, and when you had a\nconnection of that sort it wasn't worth while taking liberties with it.\nOnce or twice he spoke sharply to Philip; he thought the young man was\ngetting a bit above himself, because Philip's ideas did not always\ncoincide with his own.\n\n\"You jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these days\nyou'll find yourself in the street.\"\n\nPhilip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained himself.\nAfter all it could not possibly last much longer, and then he would be\ndone with all these people for ever. Sometimes in comic desperation he\ncried out that his uncle must be made of iron. What a constitution! The\nills he suffered from would have killed any decent person twelve months\nbefore. When at last the news came that the Vicar was dying Philip, who\nhad been thinking of other things, was taken by surprise. It was in July,\nand in another fortnight he was to have gone for his holiday. He received\na letter from Mrs. Foster to say the doctor did not give Mr. Carey many\ndays to live, and if Philip wished to see him again he must come at once.\nPhilip went to the buyer and told him he wanted to leave. Mr. Sampson was\na decent fellow, and when he knew the circumstances made no difficulties.\nPhilip said good-bye to the people in his department; the reason of his\nleaving had spread among them in an exaggerated form, and they thought he\nhad come into a fortune. Mrs. Hodges had tears in her eyes when she shook\nhands with him.\n\n\"I suppose we shan't often see you again,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm glad to get away from Lynn's,\" he answered.\n\nIt was strange, but he was actually sorry to leave these people whom he\nthought he had loathed, and when he drove away from the house in\nHarrington Street it was with no exultation. He had so anticipated the\nemotions he would experience on this occasion that now he felt nothing: he\nwas as unconcerned as though he were going for a few days' holiday.\n\n\"I've got a rotten nature,\" he said to himself. \"I look forward to things\nawfully, and then when they come I'm always disappointed.\"\n\nHe reached Blackstable early in the afternoon. Mrs. Foster met him at the\ndoor, and her face told him that his uncle was not yet dead.\n\n\"He's a little better today,\" she said. \"He's got a wonderful\nconstitution.\"\n\nShe led him into the bed-room where Mr. Carey lay on his back. He gave\nPhilip a slight smile, in which was a trace of satisfied cunning at having\ncircumvented his enemy once more.\n\n\"I thought it was all up with me yesterday,\" he said, in an exhausted\nvoice. \"They'd all given me up, hadn't you, Mrs. Foster?\"\n\n\"You've got a wonderful constitution, there's no denying that.\"\n\n\"There's life in the old dog yet.\"\n\nMrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she\ntreated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something\nchildish in the old man's satisfaction at having cheated all their\nexpectations. It struck him at once that Philip had been sent for, and he\nwas amused that he had been brought on a fool's errand. If he could only\navoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or\ntwo; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if\nhe were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of his\nconstitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was.\n\n\"Are you going to stay a day or two?\" He asked Philip, pretending to\nbelieve he had come down for a holiday.\n\n\"I was thinking of it,\" Philip answered cheerfully.\n\n\"A breath of sea-air will do you good.\"\n\nPresently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar talked with\nPhilip. He adopted an appropriate manner.\n\n\"I'm afraid it is the end this time, Philip,\" he said. \"It'll be a great\nloss to all of us. I've known him for five-and-thirty years.\"\n\n\"He seems well enough now,\" said Philip.\n\n\"I'm keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. It was dreadful these\nlast two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times.\"\n\nThe doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said\nsuddenly to Philip:\n\n\"Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?\"\n\n\"What d'you mean?\"\n\n\"They're very superstitious, these people: she's got hold of an idea that\nhe's got something on his mind, and he can't die till he gets rid of it;\nand he can't bring himself to confess it.\"\n\nPhilip did not answer, and the doctor went on.\n\n\"Of course it's nonsense. He's led a very good life, he's done his duty,\nhe's been a good parish priest, and I'm sure we shall all miss him; he\ncan't have anything to reproach himself with. I very much doubt whether\nthe next vicar will suit us half so well.\"\n\nFor several days Mr. Carey continued without change. His appetite which\nhad been excellent left him, and he could eat little. Dr. Wigram did not\nhesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and\nthat, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually\nexhausting him. His mind remained clear. Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him\nbetween them. She was so tired by the many months during which she had\nbeen attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting up with\nthe patient so that she might have her night's rest. He passed the long\nhours in an arm-chair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the\nlight of shaded candles The Thousand and One Nights. He had not read\nthem since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to\nhim. Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. When the\neffects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and kept him\nconstantly busy.\n\nAt last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the\ntrees, he heard his name called. He went up to the bed. Mr. Carey was\nlying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn\nthem on Philip. Philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a\ntowel and wiped it.\n\n\"Is that you, Philip?\" the old man asked.\n\nPhilip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. It was hoarse\nand low. So would a man speak if he was cold with fear.\n\n\"Yes, d'you want anything?\"\n\nThere was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. Then\na twitch passed over the face.\n\n\"I think I'm going to die,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, what nonsense!\" cried Philip. \"You're not going to die for years.\"\n\nTwo tears were wrung from the old man's eyes. They moved Philip horribly.\nHis uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of\nlife; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror\nthat was unspeakable.\n\n\"Send for Mr. Simmonds,\" he said. \"I want to take the Communion.\"\n\nMr. Simmonds was the curate.\n\n\"Now?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Soon, or else it'll be too late.\"\n\nPhilip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he thought and she\nwas up already. He told her to send the gardener with a message, and he\nwent back to his uncle's room.\n\n\"Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThere was a silence. Philip sat by the bed-side, and occasionally wiped\nthe sweating forehead.\n\n\"Let me hold your hand, Philip,\" the old man said at last.\n\nPhilip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his\nextremity. Perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but\nnow he turned instinctively to a human being. His hand was wet and cold.\nIt grasped Philip's with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was\nfighting with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go\nthrough that. Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God\nthat allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had never\ncared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his\ndeath; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart.\nWhat a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts!\n\nThey remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey.\n\n\"Hasn't he come yet?\"\n\nAt last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there.\nHe carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. Mrs. Foster\nbrought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with\nPhilip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man's side.\nPhilip and the maid went out of the room.\n\nPhilip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning. The\nbirds were singing gaily. The sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was\nsweet and cool. The roses were in full bloom. The green of the trees, the\ngreen of the lawns, was eager and brilliant. Philip walked, and as he\nwalked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. It\ngave him a peculiar emotion. Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and\nsaid that his uncle wished to see him. The curate was putting his things\nback into the black bag. The sick man turned his head a little and greeted\nhim with a smile. Philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an\nextraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and\nthe pinching of his face had gone: he looked happy and serene.\n\n\"I'm quite prepared now,\" he said, and his voice had a different tone in\nit. \"When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to give my soul into his\nhands.\"\n\nPhilip did not speak. He could see that his uncle was sincere. It was\nalmost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they\nhad given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage\ninto the night. He knew he was going to die: he was resigned. He only said\none thing more:\n\n\"I shall rejoin my dear wife.\"\n\nIt startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his\nuncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love.\nThe curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied\nhim to the door. Mr. Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light\ndoze, and Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning\nwore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. The doctor came and\nsaid he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets;\nhe was restless and he cried out. Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic\ninjection.\n\n\"It can't do any good now, he may die at any moment.\"\n\nThe doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip saw that it\nwas one o'clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his dinner.\n\n\"It's no use your waiting,\" he said.\n\n\"There's nothing I can do,\" said the doctor.\n\nWhen he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter,\nwho was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out\nthe body.\n\n\"You want a little fresh air,\" she said, \"it'll do you good.\"\n\nThe undertaker lived half a mile away. When Philip gave him his message,\nhe said:\n\n\"When did the poor old gentleman die?\"\n\nPhilip hesitated. It occurred to him that it would seem brutal to fetch a\nwoman to wash the body while his uncle still lived, and he wondered why\nMrs. Foster had asked him to come. They would think he was in a great\nhurry to kill the old man off. He thought the undertaker looked at him\noddly. He repeated the question. It irritated Philip. It was no business\nof his.\n\n\"When did the Vicar pass away?\"\n\nPhilip's first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but then it\nwould seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for several hours. He\nreddened and answered awkwardly.\n\n\"Oh, he isn't exactly dead yet.\"\n\nThe undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to explain.\n\n\"Mrs. Foster is all alone and she wants a woman there. You understood,\ndon't you? He may be dead by now.\"\n\nThe undertaker nodded.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I see. I'll send someone up at once.\"\n\nWhen Philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room. Mrs.\nFoster rose from her chair by the bed-side.\n\n\"He's just as he was when you left,\" she said.\n\nShe went down to get herself something to eat, and Philip watched\ncuriously the process of death. There was nothing human now in the\nunconscious being that struggled feebly. Sometimes a muttered ejaculation\nissued from the loose mouth. The sun beat down hotly from a cloudless sky,\nbut the trees in the garden were pleasant and cool. It was a lovely day.\nA bluebottle buzzed against the windowpane. Suddenly there was a loud\nrattle, it made Philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement\npassed through the limbs and the old man was dead. The machine had run\ndown. The bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the windowpane.\n\n\n\nCXII\n\n\nJosiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but\neconomical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the\nvicarage with Philip. The will was in his charge, and with a due sense of\nthe fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea. It\nwas written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to\nhis nephew. There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank,\ntwenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some in\nthe Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant. They had\nbeen bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip with\nsatisfaction:\n\n\"You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement.\nYou're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks\nnecessities.\"\n\nHis words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the\nvulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect.\nAltogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that\nmust be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch.\nIt was riches to Philip. He was not happy but infinitely relieved.\n\nMr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must be\nheld as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to go through the\npapers of the deceased. The Rev. William Carey had prided himself on never\ndestroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating back\nfor fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. He had\nkept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had\nwritten. There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his\nfather in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone to\nGermany for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It was a different\nWilliam Carey from the William Carey he had known, and yet there were\ntraces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man.\nThe letters were formal and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuous\nto see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm\nthe castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made him 'offer\nreverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe, whose works\nwere wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help thinking that they who\nlived in sight of 'this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved by\nthe contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.' Among some bills Philip\nfound a miniature which had been painted of William Carey soon after he\nwas ordained. It represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fell\nover his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a\npale ascetic face. Philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle used\nto tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoring\nladies.\n\nThe rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled through the\ninnumerable correspondence. He glanced at the address and at the\nsignature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into the\nwashing-basket by his side. Suddenly he came upon one signed Helen. He did\nnot know the writing. It was thin, angular, and old-fashioned. It began:\nmy dear William, and ended: your affectionate sister. Then it struck him\nthat it was from his own mother. He had never seen a letter of hers\nbefore, and her handwriting was strange to him. It was about himself.\n\n\nMy dear William,\n\nStephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth of\nour son and your kind wishes to myself. Thank God we are both well and I\nam deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me. Now that\nI can hold a pen I want to tell you and dear Louisa myself how truly\ngrateful I am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always since\nmy marriage. I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Both Stephen\nand I wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope that you will\nconsent. I know I am not asking a small thing, for I am sure you will take\nthe responsibilities of the position very seriously, but I am especially\nanxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergyman\nas well as the boy's uncle. I am very anxious for the boy's welfare and I\npray God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and Christian\nman. With you to guide him I hope that he will become a soldier in\nChrist's Faith and be all the days of his life God-fearing, humble, and\npious.\n\n                                      Your affectionate sister,\n                                                               Helen.\n\n\nPhilip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on his\nhands. It deeply touched and at the same time surprised him. He was\nastonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish nor\nsentimental. He knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty\nyears, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she\nwas simple and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He read\nagain what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he\nhad turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment;\nperhaps it was better that she was dead. Then a sudden impulse caused him\nto tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem\npeculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something\nindecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went on\nwith the Vicar's dreary correspondence.\n\nA few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for two\nyears entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He went to see the\nsecretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and asked\nPhilip curiously what he had been doing. Philip's experiences had given\nhim a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many\nthings: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now he\nanswered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further\ninquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in the\ncurriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. The first\nexamination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, and\nhe put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminine\nailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in\ngetting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty\nduring the last week of August and the first two of September. After this\ninterview Philip walked through the Medical School, more or less deserted,\nfor the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; and\nhe wandered along the terrace by the river-side. His heart was full. He\nthought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him\nall the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing river\nsuggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothing\nmattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities.\n\nHe went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of his\nuncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle of August, when the\npresence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to get\nbetter prices. Catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers in\nsecond-hand books at Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford.\n\nOne afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to Tercanbury and\nsee his old school. He had not been there since the day when, with relief\nin his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he was\nhis own master. It was strange to wander through the narrow streets of\nTercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. He looked at the\nold shops, still there, still selling the same things; the booksellers\nwith school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window and\nphotographs of the Cathedral and of the city in the other; the games shop,\nwith its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, and footballs; the\ntailor from whom he had got clothes all through his boyhood; and the\nfishmonger where his uncle whenever he came to Tercanbury bought fish. He\nwandered along the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the red\nbrick house which was the preparatory school. Further on was the gateway\nthat led into King's School, and he stood in the quadrangle round which\nwere the various buildings. It was just four and the boys were hurrying\nout of school. He saw the masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, and\nthey were strange to him. It was more than ten years since he had left and\nmany changes had taken place. He saw the headmaster; he walked slowly down\nfrom the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who Philip supposed\nwas in the sixth; he was little changed, tall, cadaverous, romantic as\nPhilip remembered him, with the same wild eyes; but the black beard was\nstreaked with gray now and the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined.\nPhilip had an impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid he\nwould have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who he\nwas.\n\nBoys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had hurried\nto change came out to play fives; others straggled out in twos and threes\nand went out of the gateway, Philip knew they were going up to the cricket\nground; others again went into the precincts to bat at the nets. Philip\nstood among them a stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance;\nbut visitors, attracted by the Norman staircase, were not rare and excited\nlittle attention. Philip looked at them curiously. He thought with\nmelancholy of the distance that separated him from them, and he thought\nbitterly how much he had wanted to do and how little done. It seemed to\nhim that all those years, vanished beyond recall, had been utterly wasted.\nThe boys, fresh and buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done,\nit seemed that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet in\nthat place where at least by name he had known everybody now he knew not\na soul. In a few years these too, others taking their place, would stand\nalien as he stood; but the reflection brought him no solace; it merely\nimpressed upon him the futility of human existence. Each generation\nrepeated the trivial round. He wondered what had become of the boys who\nwere his companions: they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, but\nothers were married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons,\ndoctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put youth\nbehind them. Had any of them  made such a hash of life as he? He thought\nof the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny, he could not recall his\nname; he remembered exactly what he looked like, he had been his greatest\nfriend; but his name would not come back to him. He looked back with\namusement on the jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. It was\nirritating not to recollect his name. He longed to be a boy again, like\nthose he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so that, avoiding his\nmistakes, he might start fresh and make something more out of life. He\nfelt an intolerable loneliness. He almost regretted the penury which he\nhad suffered during the last two years, since the desperate struggle\nmerely to keep body and soul together had deadened the pain of living. In\nthe sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread: it was not a curse\nupon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to existence.\n\nBut Philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his idea of the\npattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was no more than part of\na decoration which was elaborate and beautiful; he told himself\nstrenuously that he must accept with gaiety everything, dreariness and\nexcitement, pleasure and pain, because it added to the richness of the\ndesign. He sought for beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as a\nboy he had taken pleasure in the Gothic cathedral as one saw it from the\nprecincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray under the\ncloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the praise of men to\ntheir God; but the boys were batting at the nets, and they were lissom and\nstrong and active; he could not help hearing their shouts and laughter.\nThe cry of youth was insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before him\nonly with his eyes.\n\n\n\nCXIII\n\n\nAt the beginning of the last week in August Philip entered upon his duties\nin the 'district.' They were arduous, for he had to attend on an average\nthree confinements a day. The patient had obtained a 'card' from the\nhospital some time before; and when her time came it was taken to the\nporter by a messenger, generally a little girl, who was then sent across\nthe road to the house in which Philip lodged. At night the porter, who had\na latch-key, himself came over and awoke Philip. It was mysterious then to\nget up in the darkness and walk through the deserted streets of the South\nSide. At those hours it was generally the husband who brought the card. If\nthere had been a number of babies before he took it for the most part with\nsurly indifference, but if newly married he was nervous and then sometimes\nstrove to allay his anxiety by getting drunk. Often there was a mile or\nmore to walk, during which Philip and the messenger discussed the\nconditions of labour and the cost of living; Philip learnt about the\nvarious trades which were practised on that side of the river. He inspired\nconfidence in the people among whom he was thrown, and during the long\nhours that he waited in a stuffy room, the woman in labour lying on a\nlarge bed that took up half of it, her mother and the midwife talked to\nhim as naturally as they talked to one another. The circumstances in which\nhe had lived during the last two years had taught him several things about\nthe life of the very poor, which it amused them to find he knew; and they\nwere impressed because he was not deceived by their little subterfuges. He\nwas kind, and he had gentle hands, and he did not lose his temper. They\nwere pleased because he was not above drinking a cup of tea with them, and\nwhen the dawn came and they were still waiting they offered him a slice of\nbread and dripping; he was not squeamish and could eat most things now\nwith a good appetite. Some of the houses he went to, in filthy courts off\na dingy street, huddled against one another without light or air, were\nmerely squalid; but others, unexpectedly, though dilapidated, with\nworm-eaten floors and leaking roofs, had the grand air: you found in them\noak balusters exquisitely carved, and the walls had still their panelling.\nThese were thickly inhabited. One family lived in each room, and in the\ndaytime there was the incessant noise of children playing in the court.\nThe old walls were the breeding-place of vermin; the air was so foul that\noften, feeling sick, Philip had to light his pipe. The people who dwelt\nhere lived from hand to mouth. Babies were unwelcome, the man received\nthem with surly anger, the mother with despair; it was one more mouth to\nfeed, and there was little enough wherewith to feed those already there.\nPhilip often discerned the wish that the child might be born dead or might\ndie quickly. He delivered one woman of twins (a source of humour to the\nfacetious) and when she was told she burst into a long, shrill wail of\nmisery. Her mother said outright:\n\n\"I don't know how they're going to feed 'em.\"\n\n\"Maybe the Lord'll see fit to take 'em to 'imself,\" said the midwife.\n\nPhilip caught sight of the husband's face as he looked at the tiny pair\nlying side by side, and there was a ferocious sullenness in it which\nstartled him. He felt in the family assembled there a hideous resentment\nagainst those poor atoms who had come into the world unwished for; and he\nhad a suspicion that if he did not speak firmly an 'accident' would occur.\nAccidents occurred often; mothers 'overlay' their babies, and perhaps\nerrors of diet were not always the result of carelessness.\n\n\"I shall come every day,\" he said. \"I warn you that if anything happens to\nthem there'll have to be an inquest.\"\n\nThe father made no reply, but he gave Philip a scowl. There was murder in\nhis soul.\n\n\"Bless their little 'earts,\" said the grandmother, \"what should 'appen to\nthem?\"\n\nThe great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten days, which\nwas the minimum upon which the hospital practice insisted. It was awkward\nto look after the family, no one would see to the children without\npayment, and the husband tumbled because his tea was not right when he\ncame home tired from his work and hungry. Philip had heard that the poor\nhelped one another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could\nnot get anyone in to clean up and see to the children's dinner without\npaying for the service, and she could not afford to pay. By listening to\nthe women as they talked and by chance remarks from which he could deduce\nmuch that was left unsaid, Philip learned how little there was in common\nbetween the poor and the classes above them. They did not envy their\nbetters, for the life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease\nwhich made the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff;\nmoreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were soft and\ndid not work with their hands. The proud merely wished to be left alone,\nbut the majority looked upon the well-to-do as people to be exploited;\nthey knew what to say in order to get such advantages as the charitable\nput at their disposal, and they accepted benefits as a right which came to\nthem from the folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. They bore\nthe curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor\nexcited their bitter hatred. She came in and opened your windows without\nso much as a by your leave or with your leave, 'and me with my bronchitis,\nenough to give me my death of cold;' she poked her nose into corners, and\nif she didn't say the place was dirty you saw what she thought right\nenough, 'an' it's all very well for them as 'as servants, but I'd like to\nsee what she'd make of 'er room if she 'ad four children, and 'ad to do\nthe cookin', and mend their clothes, and wash them.'\n\nPhilip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these people was\nnot separation or death, that was natural and the grief of it could be\nassuaged with tears, but loss of work. He saw a man come home one\nafternoon, three days after his wife's confinement, and tell her he had\nbeen dismissed; he was a builder and at that time work was slack; he\nstated the fact, and sat down to his tea.\n\n\"Oh, Jim,\" she said.\n\nThe man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a sauce-pan\nagainst his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife looked at him two or\nthree times, with little startled glances, and then quite silently began\nto cry. The builder was an uncouth little fellow with a rough,\nweather-beaten face and a long white scar on his forehead; he had large,\nstubbly hands. Presently he pushed aside his plate as if he must give up\nthe effort to force himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the\nwindow. The room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw\nnothing but sullen clouds. The silence seemed heavy with despair. Philip\nfelt that there was nothing to be said, he could only go; and as he walked\naway wearily, for he had been up most of the night, his heart was filled\nwith rage against the cruelty of the world. He knew the hopelessness of\nthe search for work and the desolation which is harder to bear than\nhunger. He was thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a\ncondition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to\nexistence only because it was meaningless.\n\nIt seemed to Philip that the people who spent their time in helping the\npoorer classes erred because they sought to remedy things which would\nharass them if themselves had to endure them without thinking that they\ndid not in the least disturb those who were used to them. The poor did not\nwant large airy rooms; they suffered from cold, for their food was not\nnourishing and their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of\nchilliness, and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was\nno hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it; they were\nnever alone for a moment, from the time they were born to the time they\ndied, and loneliness oppressed them; they enjoyed the promiscuity in which\nthey dwelt, and the constant noise of their surroundings pressed upon\ntheir ears unnoticed. They did not feel the need of taking a bath\nconstantly, and Philip often heard them speak with indignation of the\nnecessity to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it\nwas both an affront and a discomfort. They wanted chiefly to be left\nalone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily and was not\nwithout its pleasures: there was plenty of time for gossip, after the\nday's work a glass of beer was very good to drink, the streets were a\nconstant source of entertainment, if you wanted to read there was\nReynolds' or The News of the World; 'but there, you couldn't make out\n'ow the time did fly, the truth was and that's a fact, you was a rare one\nfor reading when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you\ndidn't get no time now not even to read the paper.'\n\nThe usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement, and one\nSunday Philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour. She was up for the\nfirst time.\n\n\"I couldn't stay in bed no longer, I really couldn't. I'm not one for\nidling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do nothing all day\nlong, so I said to 'Erb, I'm just going to get up and cook your dinner for\nyou.\"\n\n'Erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his hands. He\nwas a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. He was earning good\nmoney, and as things went the couple were in easy circumstances. They had\nonly been married a few months, and were both delighted with the rosy boy\nwho lay in the cradle at the foot of the bed. There was a savoury smell of\nbeefsteak in the room and Philip's eyes turned to the range.\n\n\"I was just going to dish up this minute,\" said the woman.\n\n\"Fire away,\" said Philip. \"I'll just have a look at the son and heir and\nthen I'll take myself off.\"\n\nHusband and wife laughed at Philip's expression, and 'Erb getting up went\nover with Philip to the cradle. He looked at his baby proudly.\n\n\"There doesn't seem much wrong with him, does there?\" said Philip.\n\nHe took up his hat, and by this time 'Erb's wife had dished up the\nbeefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas.\n\n\"You're going to have a nice dinner,\" smiled Philip.\n\n\"He's only in of a Sunday and I like to 'ave something special for him, so\nas he shall miss his 'ome when he's out at work.\"\n\n\"I suppose you'd be above sittin' down and 'avin' a bit of dinner with\nus?\" said 'Erb.\n\n\"Oh, 'Erb,\" said his wife, in a shocked tone.\n\n\"Not if you ask me,\" answered Philip, with his attractive smile.\n\n\"Well, that's what I call friendly, I knew 'e wouldn't take offence,\nPolly. Just get another plate, my girl.\"\n\nPolly was flustered, and she thought 'Erb a regular caution, you never\nknew what ideas 'e'd get in 'is 'ead next; but she got a plate and wiped\nit quickly with her apron, then took a new knife and fork from the chest\nof drawers, where her best cutlery rested among her best clothes. There\nwas a jug of stout on the table, and 'Erb poured Philip out a glass. He\nwanted to give him the lion's share of the beefsteak, but Philip insisted\nthat they should share alike. It was a sunny room with two windows that\nreached to the floor; it had been the parlour of a house which at one time\nwas if not fashionable at least respectable: it might have been inhabited\nfifty years before by a well-to-do tradesman or an officer on half pay.\n'Erb had been a football player before he married, and there were\nphotographs on the wall of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with\nneatly plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding a\ncup. There were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the relations of\n'Erb and his wife in Sunday clothes; on the chimney-piece an elaborate\narrangement of shells stuck on a miniature rock; and on each side mugs, 'A\npresent from Southend' in Gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a\nparade on them. 'Erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man\nand expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union to\nforce him to join. The union wasn't no good to him, he never found no\ndifficulty in getting work, and there was good wages for anyone as 'ad a\nhead on his shoulders and wasn't above puttin' 'is 'and to anything as\ncome 'is way. Polly was timorous. If she was 'im she'd join the union, the\nlast time there was a strike she was expectin' 'im to be brought back in\nan ambulance every time he went out. She turned to Philip.\n\n\"He's that obstinate, there's no doing anything with 'im.\"\n\n\"Well, what I say is, it's a free country, and I won't be dictated to.\"\n\n\"It's no good saying it's a free country,\" said Polly, \"that won't prevent\n'em bashin' your 'ead in if they get the chanst.\"\n\nWhen they had finished Philip passed his pouch over to 'Erb and they lit\ntheir pipes; then he got up, for a 'call' might be waiting for him at his\nrooms, and shook hands. He saw that it had given them pleasure that he\nshared their meal, and they saw that he had thoroughly enjoyed it.\n\n\"Well, good-bye, sir,\" said 'Erb, \"and I 'ope we shall 'ave as nice a\ndoctor next time the missus disgraces 'erself.\"\n\n\"Go on with you, 'Erb,\" she retorted. \"'Ow d'you know there's going to\nbe a next time?\"\n\n\n\nCXIV\n\n\nThe three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. Philip had\nattended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When he came home about\nten o'clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he would\nnot be called out again. He had not had a whole night's rest for ten days.\nThe case which he had just come from was horrible. He had been fetched by\na huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an\nevil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was a\ntiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopy\nof dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that Philip could touch\nit with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that afforded\nwhat light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled\nupon it. The woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long\nsuccession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip was not\nunaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in India; the legislation\nforced upon that country by the prudery of the English public had given a\nfree run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered.\nYawning, Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over the\nwater and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He was just going\nto get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospital\nporter brought him a card.\n\n\"Curse you,\" said Philip. \"You're the last person I wanted to see tonight.\nWho's brought it?\"\n\n\"I think it's the 'usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?\"\n\nPhilip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, and\ntold the porter that he would find his own way. He dressed himself and in\nfive minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. A\nman, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said he\nwas the husband.\n\n\"I thought I'd better wait, sir,\" he said. \"It's a pretty rough\nneighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was.\"\n\nPhilip laughed.\n\n\"Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I've been in some damned\nsight rougher places than Waver Street.\"\n\nIt was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched alleys\nand down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready to\nventure by himself. Once or twice a little group of men had looked at\nPhilip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and then\none say:\n\n\"It's the 'orspital doctor.\"\n\nAs he went by one or two of them said: \"Good-night, sir.\"\n\n\"We shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir,\" said the man who\naccompanied him now. \"They told me there was no time to lose.\"\n\n\"Why did you leave it so late?\" asked Philip, as he quickened his pace.\n\nHe glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post.\n\n\"You look awfully young,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm turned eighteen, sir.\"\n\nHe was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than a\nboy; he was short, but thick set.\n\n\"You're young to be married,\" said Philip.\n\n\"We 'ad to.\"\n\n\"How much d'you earn?\"\n\n\"Sixteen, sir.\"\n\nSixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. The\nroom the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. It was a\nfair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniture\nin it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on the\nwalls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheap\nframes from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patient\nlay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to see\nhow young she was.\n\n\"By Jove, she can't be more than sixteen,\" he said to the woman who had\ncome in to 'see her through.'\n\nShe had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were very\nyoung they often put on a year or two. Also she was pretty, which was rare\nin those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by bad\nfood, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and\nlarge blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of\nthe coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous.\n\n\"You'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you,\" Philip\nsaid to him.\n\nNow that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his boyish air:\nyou felt that he should be larking in the street with the other lads\ninstead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. The hours passed,\nand it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. Everything seemed\nto be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched\nPhilip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philip\npacked up his things. Before going he felt once more his patient's pulse.\n\n\"Hulloa!\" he said.\n\nHe looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of emergency\nthe S. O. C.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent for; he was a\nqualified man, and the 'district' was in his charge. Philip scribbled a\nnote, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to the\nhospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. The\nman set off. Philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to\ndeath; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what\nsteps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not have been\ncalled elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He came at last, and,\nwhile he examined the patient, in a low voice asked Philip questions.\nPhilip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. His name was\nChandler. He was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin face\nmuch lined for his age. He shook his head.\n\n\"It was hopeless from the beginning. Where's the husband?\"\n\n\"I told him to wait on the stairs,\" said Philip.\n\n\"You'd better bring him in.\"\n\nPhilip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the dark on the\nfirst step of the flight that led to the next floor. He came up to the\nbed.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why, there's internal bleeding. It's impossible to stop it.\" The S. O. C.\nhesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forced\nhis voice to become brusque. \"She's dying.\"\n\nThe man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife,\nwho lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the midwife who spoke.\n\n\"The gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'Arry,\" she said. \"I saw what was\ncomin' from the first.\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" said Chandler.\n\nThere were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed to\nlighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. Chandler was\nkeeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life was\nslipping away from her, and suddenly she died. The boy who was her husband\nstood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail;\nhe did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gave\nhim an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray.\nThe midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. His eyes were\nfixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. He reminded\nyou of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. When\nChandler and Philip had gathered together their things Chandler turned to\nthe husband.\n\n\"You'd better lie down for a bit. I expect you're about done up.\"\n\n\"There's nowhere for me to lie down, sir,\" he answered, and there was in\nhis voice a humbleness which was very distressing.\n\n\"Don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a shakedown?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"They only moved in last week,\" said the midwife. \"They don't know nobody\nyet.\"\n\nChandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the man and\nsaid:\n\n\"I'm very sorry this has happened.\"\n\nHe held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at his own to\nsee if it was clean, shook it.\n\n\"Thank you, sir.\"\n\nPhilip shook hands with him too. Chandler told the midwife to come and\nfetch the certificate in the morning. They left the house and walked along\ntogether in silence.\n\n\"It upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?\" said Chandler at last.\n\n\"A bit,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"If you like I'll tell the porter not to bring you any more calls\ntonight.\"\n\n\"I'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case.\"\n\n\"How many cases have you had?\"\n\n\"Sixty-three.\"\n\n\"Good. You'll get your certificate then.\"\n\nThey arrived at the hospital, and the S. O. C. went in to see if anyone\nwanted him. Philip walked on. It had been very hot all the day before, and\neven now in the early morning there was a balminess in the air. The street\nwas very still. Philip did not feel inclined to go to bed. It was the end\nof his work and he need not hurry. He strolled along, glad of the fresh\nair and the silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and look\nat day break on the river. A policeman at the corner bade him\ngood-morning. He knew who Philip was from his bag.\n\n\"Out late tonight, sir,\" he said.\n\nPhilip nodded and passed. He leaned against the parapet and looked towards\nthe morning. At that hour the great city was like a city of the dead. The\nsky was cloudless, but the stars were dim at the approach of day; there\nwas a light mist on the river, and the great buildings on the north side\nwere like palaces in an enchanted island. A group of barges was moored in\nmidstream. It was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow and\nawe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and gray. Then\nthe sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the sky, and the sky was\niridescent. Philip could not get out of his eyes the dead girl lying on\nthe bed, wan and white, and the boy who stood at the end of it like a\nstricken beast. The bareness of the squalid room made the pain of it more\npoignant. It was cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her life\nwhen she was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying this\nto himself, Philip thought of the life which had been in store for her,\nthe bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty, the youth broken\nby toil and deprivation into a slatternly middle age--he saw the pretty\nface grow thin and white, the hair grow scanty, the pretty hands, worn\ndown brutally by work, become like the claws of an old animal--then, when\nthe man was past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the small\nwages he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end: she\nmight be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have saved her; in\nthe end was the workhouse or subsistence on the charity of her children.\nWho could pity her because she had died when life offered so little?\n\nBut pity was inane. Philip felt it was not that which these people needed.\nThey did not pity themselves. They accepted their fate. It was the natural\norder of things. Otherwise, good heavens! otherwise they would swarm over\nthe river in their multitude to the side where those great buildings were,\nsecure and stately, and they would pillage, burn, and sack. But the day,\ntender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous; it bathed\neverything in a soft radiance; and the Thames was gray, rosy, and green;\ngray like mother-of-pearl and green like the heart of a yellow rose. The\nwharfs and store-houses of the Surrey Side were massed in disorderly\nloveliness. The scene was so exquisite that Philip's heart beat\npassionately. He was overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. Beside that\nnothing seemed to matter.\n\n\n\nCXV\n\n\nPhilip spent the few weeks that remained before the beginning of the\nwinter session in the out-patients' department, and in October settled\ndown to regular work. He had been away from the hospital for so long that\nhe found himself very largely among new people; the men of different years\nhad little to do with one another, and his contemporaries were now mostly\nqualified: some had left to take up assistantships or posts in country\nhospitals and infirmaries, and some held appointments at St. Luke's. The\ntwo years during which his mind had lain fallow had refreshed him, he\nfancied, and he was able now to work with energy.\n\nThe Athelnys were delighted with his change of fortune. He had kept aside\na few things from the sale of his uncle's effects and gave them all\npresents. He gave Sally a gold chain that had belonged to his aunt. She\nwas now grown up. She was apprenticed to a dressmaker and set out every\nmorning at eight to work all day in a shop in Regent Street. Sally had\nfrank blue eyes, a broad brow, and plentiful shining hair; she was buxom,\nwith broad hips and full breasts; and her father, who was fond of\ndiscussing her appearance, warned her constantly that she must not grow\nfat. She attracted because she was healthy, animal, and feminine. She had\nmany admirers, but they left her unmoved; she gave one the impression that\nshe looked upon love-making as nonsense; and it was easy to imagine that\nyoung men found her unapproachable. Sally was old for her years: she had\nbeen used to help her mother in the household work and in the care of the\nchildren, so that she had acquired a managing air, which made her mother\nsay that Sally was a bit too fond of having things her own way. She did\nnot speak very much, but as she grew older she seemed to be acquiring a\nquiet sense of humour, and sometimes uttered a remark which suggested that\nbeneath her impassive exterior she was quietly bubbling with amusement at\nher fellow-creatures. Philip found that with her he never got on the terms\nof affectionate intimacy upon which he was with the rest of Athelny's huge\nfamily. Now and then her indifference slightly irritated him. There was\nsomething enigmatic in her.\n\nWhen Philip gave her the necklace Athelny in his boisterous way insisted\nthat she must kiss him; but Sally reddened and drew back.\n\n\"No, I'm not going to,\" she said.\n\n\"Ungrateful hussy!\" cried Athelny. \"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't like being kissed by men,\" she said.\n\nPhilip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned Athelny's attention to\nsomething else. That was never a very difficult thing to do. But evidently\nher mother spoke of the matter later, for next time Philip came she took\nthe opportunity when they were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to\nit.\n\n\"You didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when I wouldn't kiss\nyou?\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" he laughed.\n\n\"It's not because I wasn't grateful.\" She blushed a little as she uttered\nthe formal phrase which she had prepared. \"I shall always value the\nnecklace, and it was very kind of you to give it me.\"\n\nPhilip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. She did all that\nshe had to do very competently, but seemed to feel no need of\nconversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in her. One Sunday\nafternoon when Athelny and his wife had gone out together, and Philip,\ntreated as one of the family, sat reading in the parlour, Sally came in\nand sat by the window to sew. The girls' clothes were made at home and\nSally could not afford to spend Sundays in idleness. Philip thought she\nwished to talk and put down his book.\n\n\"Go on reading,\" she said. \"I only thought as you were alone I'd come and\nsit with you.\"\n\n\"You're the most silent person I've ever struck,\" said Philip.\n\n\"We don't want another one who's talkative in this house,\" she said.\n\nThere was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact. But it\nsuggested to Philip that she measured her father, alas, no longer the hero\nhe was to her childhood, and in her mind joined together his entertaining\nconversation and the thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into\ntheir life; she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common\nsense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she was perhaps\nsometimes a little impatient with it. Philip looked at her as she bent\nover her work; she was healthy, strong, and normal; it must be odd to see\nher among the other girls in the shop with their flat chests and anaemic\nfaces. Mildred suffered from anaemia.\n\nAfter a time it appeared that Sally had a suitor. She went out\noccasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had met a\nyoung man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of business, who was\na most eligible person. One day she told her mother that he had asked her\nto marry him.\n\n\"What did you say?\" said her mother.\n\n\"Oh, I told him I wasn't over-anxious to marry anyone just yet awhile.\"\nShe paused a little as was her habit between observations. \"He took on so\nthat I said he might come to tea on Sunday.\"\n\nIt was an occasion that thoroughly appealed to Athelny. He rehearsed all\nthe afternoon how he should play the heavy father for the young man's\nedification till he reduced his children to helpless giggling. Just before\nhe was due Athelny routed out an Egyptian tarboosh and insisted on putting\nit on.\n\n\"Go on with you, Athelny,\" said his wife, who was in her best, which was\nof black velvet, and, since she was growing stouter every year, very tight\nfor her. \"You'll spoil the girl's chances.\"\n\nShe tried to pull it off, but the little man skipped nimbly out of her\nway.\n\n\"Unhand me, woman. Nothing will induce me to take it off. This young man\nmust be shown at once that it is no ordinary family he is preparing to\nenter.\"\n\n\"Let him keep it on, mother,\" said Sally, in her even, indifferent\nfashion. \"If Mr. Donaldson doesn't take it the way it's meant he can take\nhimself off, and good riddance.\"\n\nPhilip thought it was a severe ordeal that the young man was being exposed\nto, since Athelny, in his brown velvet jacket, flowing black tie, and red\ntarboosh, was a startling spectacle for an innocent electrical engineer.\nWhen he came he was greeted by his host with the proud courtesy of a\nSpanish grandee and by Mrs. Athelny in an altogether homely and natural\nfashion. They sat down at the old ironing-table in the high-backed monkish\nchairs, and Mrs. Athelny poured tea out of a lustre teapot which gave a\nnote of England and the country-side to the festivity. She had made little\ncakes with her own hand, and on the table was home-made jam. It was a\nfarm-house tea, and to Philip very quaint and charming in that Jacobean\nhouse. Athelny for some fantastic reason took it into his head to\ndiscourse upon Byzantine history; he had been reading the later volumes of\nthe Decline and Fall; and, his forefinger dramatically extended, he\npoured into the astonished ears of the suitor scandalous stories about\nTheodora and Irene. He addressed himself directly to his guest with a\ntorrent of rhodomontade; and the young man, reduced to helpless silence\nand shy, nodded his head at intervals to show that he took an intelligent\ninterest. Mrs. Athelny paid no attention to Thorpe's conversation, but\ninterrupted now and then to offer the young man more tea or to press upon\nhim cake and jam. Philip watched Sally; she sat with downcast eyes, calm,\nsilent, and observant; and her long eye-lashes cast a pretty shadow on her\ncheek. You could not tell whether she was amused at the scene or if she\ncared for the young man. She was inscrutable. But one thing was certain:\nthe electrical engineer was good-looking, fair and clean-shaven, with\npleasant, regular features, and an honest face; he was tall and well-made.\nPhilip could not help thinking he would make an excellent mate for her,\nand he felt a pang of envy for the happiness which he fancied was in store\nfor them.\n\nPresently the suitor said he thought it was about time he was getting\nalong. Sally rose to her feet without a word and accompanied him to the\ndoor. When she came back her father burst out:\n\n\"Well, Sally, we think your young man very nice. We are prepared to\nwelcome him into our family. Let the banns be called and I will compose a\nnuptial song.\"\n\nSally set about clearing away the tea-things. She did not answer. Suddenly\nshe shot a swift glance at Philip.\n\n\"What did you think of him, Mr. Philip?\"\n\nShe had always refused to call him Uncle Phil as the other children did,\nand would not call him Philip.\n\n\"I think you'd make an awfully handsome pair.\"\n\nShe looked at him quickly once more, and then with a slight blush went on\nwith her business.\n\n\"I thought him a very nice civil-spoken young fellow,\" said Mrs. Athelny,\n\"and I think he's just the sort to make any girl happy.\"\n\nSally did not reply for a minute or two, and Philip looked at her\ncuriously: it might be thought that she was meditating upon what her\nmother had said, and on the other hand she might be thinking of the man in\nthe moon.\n\n\"Why don't you answer when you're spoken to, Sally?\" remarked her mother,\na little irritably.\n\n\"I thought he was a silly.\"\n\n\"Aren't you going to have him then?\"\n\n\"No, I'm not.\"\n\n\"I don't know how much more you want,\" said Mrs. Athelny, and it was quite\nclear now that she was put out. \"He's a very decent young fellow and he\ncan afford to give you a thorough good home. We've got quite enough to\nfeed here without you. If you get a chance like that it's wicked not to\ntake it. And I daresay you'd be able to have a girl to do the rough work.\"\n\nPhilip had never before heard Mrs. Athelny refer so directly to the\ndifficulties of her life. He saw how important it was that each child\nshould be provided for.\n\n\"It's no good your carrying on, mother,\" said Sally in her quiet way. \"I'm\nnot going to marry him.\"\n\n\"I think you're a very hard-hearted, cruel, selfish girl.\"\n\n\"If you want me to earn my own living, mother, I can always go into\nservice.\"\n\n\"Don't be so silly, you know your father would never let you do that.\"\n\nPhilip caught Sally's eye, and he thought there was in it a glimmer of\namusement. He wondered what there had been in the conversation to touch\nher sense of humour. She was an odd girl.\n\n\n\nCXVI\n\n\nDuring his last year at St. Luke's Philip had to work hard. He was\ncontented with life. He found it very comfortable to be heart-free and to\nhave enough money for his needs. He had heard people speak contemptuously\nof money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. He knew\nthat the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character\nand caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to\nconsider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a\ncompetency to rate it at its proper value. He lived a solitary life,\nseeing no one except the Athelnys, but he was not lonely; he busied\nhimself with plans for the future, and sometimes he thought of the past.\nHis recollection dwelt now and then on old friends, but he made no effort\nto see them. He would have liked to know what was become of Norah Nesbit;\nshe was Norah something else now, but he could not remember the name of\nthe man she was going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was a\ngood and a brave soul. One evening about half past eleven he saw Lawson,\nwalking along Piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and might be supposed\nto be coming back from a theatre. Philip gave way to a sudden impulse and\nquickly turned down a side street. He had not seen him for two years and\nfelt that he could not now take up again the interrupted friendship. He\nand Lawson had nothing more to say to one another. Philip was no longer\ninterested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy beauty with\ngreater force than when he was a boy; but art appeared to him unimportant.\nHe was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of\nlife, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation\nwith pigments and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip's\nfriendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: it\nwas merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of no\nfurther interest to him.\n\nSometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the streets\nin which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling,\nperhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would not\nacknowledge, made him wander about Piccadilly and Regent Street during the\nhours when she might be expected to be there. He did not know then whether\nhe wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him\nof hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious\nsensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it\nand a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was\nmistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or\ndisappointment.\n\n\nAt the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last\nexamination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had\nentered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the\nstairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which\nqualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction.\n\n\"Now I'm really going to begin life,\" he thought.\n\nNext day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of\nthe hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a\nblack beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated\nhim on his success, and then said:\n\n\"I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast?\nThree guineas a week with board and lodging.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't mind,\" said Philip.\n\n\"It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at\nonce; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant\nplace.\"\n\nThere was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was\na little doubtful.\n\n\"What's the crab in it?\" he asked.\n\nThe secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion.\n\n\"Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow.\nThe agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very\nopenly, and men don't like it.\"\n\n\"But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified?\nAfter all I have no experience.\"\n\n\"He ought to be glad to get you,\" said the secretary diplomatically.\n\nPhilip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks,\nand he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put it\naside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he had\nfinished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give him\nanything there, at some other hospital.\n\n\"All right. I'll go.\"\n\n\"The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so,\nI'll send a wire at once.\"\n\nPhilip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the\nAthelnys the night before (he had gone at once to take them his good news)\nand there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He had\nlittle luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of the\nstation at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low\nstucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing over it. He was shown into\nthe consulting-room. An old man was writing at a desk. He looked up as the\nmaid ushered Philip in. He did not get up, and he did not speak; he merely\nstared at Philip. Philip was taken aback.\n\n\"I think you're expecting me,\" he said. \"The secretary of St. Luke's wired\nto you this morning.\"\n\n\"I kept dinner back for half an hour. D'you want to wash?\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Philip.\n\nDoctor South amused him by his odd manner. He got up now, and Philip saw\nthat he was a man of middle height, thin, with white hair cut very short\nand a long mouth closed so tightly that he seemed to have no lips at all;\nhe was clean-shaven but for small white whiskers, and they increased the\nsquareness of face which his firm jaw gave him. He wore a brown tweed suit\nand a white stock. His clothes hung loosely about him as though they had\nbeen made for a much larger man. He looked like a respectable farmer of\nthe middle of the nineteenth century. He opened the door.\n\n\"There is the dining-room,\" he said, pointing to the door opposite. \"Your\nbed-room is the first door you come to when you get on the landing. Come\ndownstairs when you're ready.\"\n\nDuring dinner Philip knew that Doctor South was examining him, but he\nspoke little, and Philip felt that he did not want to hear his assistant\ntalk.\n\n\"When were you qualified?\" he asked suddenly.\n\n\"Yesterday.\"\n\n\"Were you at a university?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a 'Varsity man.\nI told 'em not to do it again. Too damned gentlemanly for me.\"\n\nThere was another pause. The dinner was very simple and very good. Philip\npreserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he was bubbling over with\nexcitement. He was immensely elated at being engaged as a locum; it made\nhim feel extremely grown up; he had an insane desire to laugh at nothing\nin particular; and the more he thought of his professional dignity the\nmore he was inclined to chuckle.\n\nBut Doctor South broke suddenly into his thoughts. \"How old are you?\"\n\n\"Getting on for thirty.\"\n\n\"How is it you're only just qualified?\"\n\n\"I didn't go in for the medical till I was nearly twenty-three, and I had\nto give it up for two years in the middle.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Poverty.\"\n\nDoctor South gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. At the end of\ndinner he got up from the table.\n\n\"D'you know what sort of a practice this is?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"Mostly fishermen and their families. I have the Union and the Seamen's\nHospital. I used to be alone here, but since they tried to make this into\na fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up on the cliff, and the\nwell-to-do people go to him. I only have those who can't afford to pay for\na doctor at all.\"\n\nPhilip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man.\n\n\"You know that I have no experience,\" said Philip.\n\n\"You none of you know anything.\"\n\nHe walked out of the room without another word and left Philip by himself.\nWhen the maid came in to clear away she told Philip that Doctor South saw\npatients from six till seven. Work for that night was over. Philip fetched\na book from his room, lit his pipe, and settled himself down to read. It\nwas a great comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for the\nlast few months. At ten o'clock Doctor South came in and looked at him.\nPhilip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged up a chair for\nthem.\n\n\"You seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable,\" said Doctor South,\nwith a grimness which would have disturbed Philip if he had not been in\nsuch high spirits.\n\nPhilip's eyes twinkled as he answered.\n\n\"Have you any objection?\"\n\nDoctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly.\n\n\"What's that you're reading?\"\n\n\"Peregrine Pickle. Smollett.\"\n\n\"I happen to know that Smollett wrote Peregrine Pickle.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon. Medical men aren't much interested in literature, are\nthey?\"\n\nPhilip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took it up. It\nwas a volume of an edition which had belonged to the Vicar of Blackstable.\nIt was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving as\na frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould.\nPhilip, without meaning to, started forward a little as Doctor South took\nthe volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Very\nlittle escaped the old doctor.\n\n\"Do I amuse you?\" he asked icily.\n\n\"I see you're fond of books. You can always tell by the way people handle\nthem.\"\n\n Doctor South put down the novel immediately.\n\n\"Breakfast at eight-thirty,\" he said and left the room.\n\n\"What a funny old fellow!\" thought Philip.\n\nHe soon discovered why Doctor South's assistants found it difficult to get\non with him. In the first place, he set his face firmly against all the\ndiscoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugs\nwhich became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few\nyears were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St.\nLuke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he found\nthem just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since.\nPhilip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion of asepsis; he had\naccepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautions\nwhich Philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with\nthe disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children.\n\n\"I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, and\nthen I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!\"\n\nThe young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; and\nthey came with the unconcealed scorn for the General Practitioner which\nthey had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only the\ncomplicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an\nobscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted\nfor a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and their\nself-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with tightened lips;\nhe took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignorance\nand how unjustified their conceit. It was a poor practice, of fishing\nfolk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. Doctor South asked his\nassistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman\nwith a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs.\nHe complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: their\nreading consisted of The Sporting Times and The British Medical\nJournal; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. For\ntwo or three days Doctor South watched Philip closely, ready to fall on\nhim with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware of\nthis, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He was pleased\nwith the change of occupation. He liked the feeling of independence and of\nresponsibility. All sorts of people came to the consulting-room. He was\ngratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence;\nand it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospital\nnecessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds took\nhim into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails and\nhere and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from Japan,\nspears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of Stamboul;\nthere was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt of\nthe sea gave them a bitter freshness. Philip liked to talk to the\nsailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told him\nlong yarns of the distant journeys of their youth.\n\nOnce or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen a case of\nmeasles before, and when he was confronted with the rash took it for an\nobscure disease of the skin;) and once or twice his ideas of treatment\ndiffered from Doctor South's. The first time this happened Doctor South\nattacked him with savage irony; but Philip took it with good humour; he\nhad some gift for repartee, and he made one or two answers which caused\nDoctor South to stop and look at him curiously. Philip's face was grave,\nbut his eyes were twinkling. The old gentleman could not avoid the\nimpression that Philip was chaffing him. He was used to being disliked and\nfeared by his assistants, and this was a new experience. He had half a\nmind to fly into a passion and pack Philip off by the next train, he had\ndone that before with his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling that\nPhilip then would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he felt\namused. His mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and he\nturned away. In a little while he grew conscious that Philip was amusing\nhimself systematically at his expense. He was taken aback at first and\nthen diverted.\n\n\"Damn his impudence,\" he chuckled to himself. \"Damn his impudence.\"\n\n\n\nCXVII\n\n\nPhilip had written to Athelny to tell him that he was doing a locum in\nDorsetshire and in due course received an answer from him. It was written\nin the formal manner he affected, studded with pompous epithets as a\nPersian diadem was studded with precious stones; and in the beautiful\nhand, like black letter and as difficult to read, upon which he prided\nhimself. He suggested that Philip should join him and his family in the\nKentish hop-field to which he went every year; and to persuade him said\nvarious beautiful and complicated things about Philip's soul and the\nwinding tendrils of the hops. Philip replied at once that he would come on\nthe first day he was free. Though not born there, he had a peculiar\naffection for the Isle of Thanet, and he was fired with enthusiasm at the\nthought of spending a fortnight so close to the earth and amid conditions\nwhich needed only a blue sky to be as idyllic as the olive groves of\nArcady.\n\nThe four weeks of his engagement at Farnley passed quickly. On the cliff\na new town was springing up, with red brick villas round golf links, and\na large hotel had recently been opened to cater for the summer visitors;\nbut Philip went there seldom. Down below, by the harbour, the little stone\nhouses of a past century were clustered in a delightful confusion, and the\nnarrow streets, climbing down steeply, had an air of antiquity which\nappealed to the imagination. By the water's edge were neat cottages with\ntrim, tiny gardens in front of them; they were inhabited by retired\ncaptains in the merchant service, and by mothers or widows of men who had\ngained their living by the sea; and they had an appearance which was\nquaint and peaceful. In the little harbour came tramps from Spain and the\nLevant, ships of small tonnage; and now and then a windjammer was borne in\nby the winds of romance. It reminded Philip of the dirty little harbour\nwith its colliers at Blackstable, and he thought that there he had first\nacquired the desire, which was now an obsession, for Eastern lands and\nsunlit islands in a tropic sea. But here you felt yourself closer to the\nwide, deep ocean than on the shore of that North Sea which seemed always\ncircumscribed; here you could draw a long breath as you looked out upon\nthe even vastness; and the west wind, the dear soft salt wind of England,\nuplifted the heart and at the same time melted it to tenderness.\n\nOne evening, when Philip had reached his last week with Doctor South, a\nchild came to the surgery door while the old doctor and Philip were making\nup prescriptions. It was a little ragged girl with a dirty face and bare\nfeet. Philip opened the door.\n\n\"Please, sir, will you come to Mrs. Fletcher's in Ivy Lane at once?\"\n\n\"What's the matter with Mrs. Fletcher?\" called out Doctor South in his\nrasping voice.\n\nThe child took no notice of him, but addressed herself again to Philip.\n\n\"Please, sir, her little boy's had an accident and will you come at once?\"\n\n\"Tell Mrs. Fletcher I'm coming,\" called out Doctor South.\n\nThe little girl hesitated for a moment, and putting a dirty finger in a\ndirty mouth stood still and looked at Philip.\n\n\"What's the matter, Kid?\" said Philip, smiling.\n\n\"Please, sir, Mrs. Fletcher says, will the new doctor come?\" There was a\nsound in the dispensary and Doctor South came out into the passage.\n\n\"Isn't Mrs. Fletcher satisfied with me?\" he barked. \"I've attended Mrs.\nFletcher since she was born. Why aren't I good enough to attend her filthy\nbrat?\"\n\nThe little girl looked for a moment as though she were going to cry, then\nshe thought better of it; she put out her tongue deliberately at Doctor\nSouth, and, before he could recover from his astonishment, bolted off as\nfast as she could run. Philip saw that the old gentleman was annoyed.\n\n\"You look rather fagged, and it's a goodish way to Ivy Lane,\" he said, by\nway of giving him an excuse not to go himself.\n\nDoctor South gave a low snarl.\n\n\"It's a damned sight nearer for a man who's got the use of both legs than\nfor a man who's only got one and a half.\"\n\nPhilip reddened and stood silent for a while.\n\n\"Do you wish me to go or will you go yourself?\" he said at last frigidly.\n\n\"What's the good of my going? They want you.\"\n\nPhilip took up his hat and went to see the patient. It was hard upon eight\no'clock when he came back. Doctor South was standing in the dining-room\nwith his back to the fireplace.\n\n\"You've been a long time,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm sorry. Why didn't you start dinner?\"\n\n\"Because I chose to wait. Have you been all this while at Mrs.\nFletcher's?\"\n\n\"No, I'm afraid I haven't. I stopped to look at the sunset on my way back,\nand I didn't think of the time.\"\n\nDoctor South did not reply, and the servant brought in some grilled\nsprats. Philip ate them with an excellent appetite. Suddenly Doctor South\nshot a question at him.\n\n\"Why did you look at the sunset?\"\n\nPhilip answered with his mouth full.\n\n\"Because I was happy.\"\n\nDoctor South gave him an odd look, and the shadow of a smile flickered\nacross his old, tired face. They ate the rest of the dinner in silence;\nbut when the maid had given them the port and left the room, the old man\nleaned back and fixed his sharp eyes on Philip.\n\n\"It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young fellow?\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me.\"\n\n\"I suppose they know it's your weak point.\"\n\nPhilip faced him and looked at him steadily.\n\n\"Are you very glad to have discovered it?\"\n\nThe doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. They sat\nfor a while staring at one another. Then Doctor South surprised Philip\nextremely.\n\n\"Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool with his\nmumps?\"\n\n\"It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the hospital\nin the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other work later.\"\n\n\"I'm offering you a partnership,\" said Doctor South grumpily.\n\n\"Why?\" asked Philip, with surprise.\n\n\"They seem to like you down here.\"\n\n\"I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval,\"\nPhilip said drily.\n\n\"D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a twopenny damn\nwhether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my friend. There's no\nsentiment between my patients and me. I don't expect gratitude from them,\nI expect them to pay my fees. Well, what d'you say to it?\"\n\nPhilip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but\nbecause he was astonished. It was evidently very unusual for someone to\noffer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder\nthat, although nothing would induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken\na fancy to him. He thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be\nwhen he told him.\n\n\"The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can reckon out how\nmuch your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. And\nwhen I die you can succeed me. I think that's better than knocking about\nhospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you\ncan afford to set up for yourself.\"\n\nPhilip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump\nat; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be\nthankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't,\" he said. \"It means giving up everything\nI've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've had a roughish time,\nbut I always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that I might\ntravel; and now, when I wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get\noff, I don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places I've never\nbeen to.\"\n\nNow the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his appointment at\nSt. Luke's by the middle of the following year, and then he would go to\nSpain; he could afford to spend several months there, rambling up and down\nthe land which stood to him for romance; after that he would get a ship\nand go to the East. Life was before him and time of no account. He could\nwander, for years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange\npeoples, where life was led in strange ways. He did not know what he\nsought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a feeling that he\nwould learn something new about life and gain some clue to the mystery\nthat he had solved only to find more mysterious. And even if he found\nnothing he would allay the unrest which gnawed at his heart. But Doctor\nSouth was showing him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse\nhis offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to appear as\nmatter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to explain why it was so\nimportant to him to carry out the plans he had cherished so passionately.\n\nDoctor South listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his shrewd old\neyes. It seemed to Philip an added kindness that he did not press him to\naccept his offer. Benevolence is often very peremptory. He appeared to\nlook upon Philip's reasons as sound. Dropping the subject, he began to\ntalk of his own youth; he had been in the Royal Navy, and it was his long\nconnection with the sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at\nFarnley. He told Philip of old days in the Pacific and of wild adventures\nin China. He had taken part in an expedition against the head-hunters of\nBorneo and had known Samoa when it was still an independent state. He had\ntouched at coral islands. Philip listened to him entranced. Little by\nlittle he told Philip about himself. Doctor South was a widower, his wife\nhad died thirty years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in\nRhodesia; he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to England for\nten years. It was just as if he had never had wife or child. He was very\nlonely. His gruffness was little more than a protection which he wore to\nhide a complete disillusionment; and to Philip it seemed tragic to see him\njust waiting for death, not impatiently, but rather with loathing for it,\nhating old age and unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet\nwith the feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of his\nlife. Philip crossed his path, and the natural affection which long\nseparation from his daughter had killed--she had taken her husband's part\nin the quarrel and her children he had never seen--settled itself upon\nPhilip. At first it made him angry, he told himself it was a sign of\ndotage; but there was something in Philip that attracted him, and he found\nhimself smiling at him he knew not why. Philip did not bore him. Once or\ntwice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress as he had\ngot since his daughter left England so many years before. When the time\ncame for Philip to go Doctor South accompanied him to the station: he\nfound himself unaccountably depressed.\n\n\"I've had a ripping time here,\" said Philip. \"You've been awfully kind to\nme.\"\n\n\"I suppose you're very glad to go?\"\n\n\"I've enjoyed myself here.\"\n\n\"But you want to get out into the world? Ah, you have youth.\" He hesitated\na moment. \"I want you to remember that if you change your mind my offer\nstill stands.\"\n\n\"That's awfully kind of you.\"\n\nPhilip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the train\nsteamed out of the station. Philip thought of the fortnight he was going\nto spend in the hop-field: he was happy at the idea of seeing his friends\nagain, and he rejoiced because the day was fine. But Doctor South walked\nslowly back to his empty house. He felt very old and very lonely.\n\n\n\nCXVIII\n\n\nIt was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was Mrs.\nAthelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood\nto pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she\nstill went every year. Like many Kentish folk her family had gone out\nregularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the\nannual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. The\nwork was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the\nchildren it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the\nmaidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the\nlanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by\nweddings. They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and\ntables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. They were very\nexclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they\ncalled the people who came from London; they looked down upon them and\nfeared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk\ndid not want to mix with them. In the old days the hoppers slept in barns,\nbut ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow;\nand the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year.\n\nAthelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the\npublic-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was a quarter of a\nmile from the hop-field. They left his bag there and walked over to the\nmeadow in which were the huts. They were nothing more than a long, low\nshed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. In front of each\nwas a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching\nthe cooking of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already the\nfaces of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her\nsun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real\ndifference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could\nsee how much at home she found herself in the country. She was frying\nbacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she\nhad a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny was\nenthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence.\n\n\"We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It isn't life,\nit's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farm\nin the country.\"\n\n\"I can see you in the country,\" she answered with good-humoured scorn.\n\"Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying for\nLondon.\" She turned to Philip. \"Athelny's always like this when we come\ndown here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't know a swede from a\nmangel-wurzel.\"\n\n\"Daddy was lazy today,\" remarked Jane, with the frankness which\ncharacterized her, \"he didn't fill one bin.\"\n\n\"I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more bins\nthan all of you put together.\"\n\n\"Come and eat your supper, children,\" said Mrs. Athelny. \"Where's Sally?\"\n\n\"Here I am, mother.\"\n\nShe stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire\nleaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late Philip had only\nseen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the\ndressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress she\nwore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed\nher strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet.\n\n\"You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story,\" said Philip, as he shook\nhands with her.\n\n\"She's the belle of the hop-fields,\" said Athelny. \"My word, if the\nSquire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you can\nsay Jack Robinson.\"\n\n\"The Squire hasn't got a son, father,\" said Sally.\n\nShe looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for her\nbeside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. She was\nlike some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom\nold Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, bread\nand butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs.\nAthelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate.\nHe flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives upon\nBrillat-Savarin.\n\n\"There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny,\" said his wife, \"you do\nenjoy your food and no mistake!\"\n\n\"Cooked by your hand, my Betty,\" he said, stretching out an eloquent\nforefinger.\n\nPhilip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily at the line of\nfires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of the flames\nagainst the night; at the end of the meadow was a line of great elms, and\nabove the starry sky. The children talked and laughed, and Athelny, a\nchild among them, made them roar by his tricks and fancies.\n\n\"They think a rare lot of Athelny down here,\" said his wife. \"Why, Mrs.\nBridges said to me, I don't know what we should do without Mr. Athelny\nnow, she said. He's always up to something, he's more like a schoolboy\nthan the father of a family.\"\n\nSally sat in silence, but she attended to Philip's wants in a thoughtful\nfashion that charmed him. It was pleasant to have her beside him, and now\nand then he glanced at her sunburned, healthy face. Once he caught her\neyes, and she smiled quietly. When supper was over Jane and a small\nbrother were sent down to a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow to\nfetch a pail of water for washing up.\n\n\"You children, show your Uncle Philip where we sleep, and then you must be\nthinking of going to bed.\"\n\nSmall hands seized Philip, and he was dragged towards the hut. He went in\nand struck a match. There was no furniture in it; and beside a tin box, in\nwhich clothes were kept, there was nothing but the beds; there were three\nof them, one against each wall. Athelny followed Philip in and showed them\nproudly.\n\n\"That's the stuff to sleep on,\" he cried. \"None of your spring-mattresses\nand swansdown. I never sleep so soundly anywhere as here. YOU will\nsleep between sheets. My dear fellow, I pity you from the bottom of my\nsoul.\"\n\nThe beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of which was a\ncoating of straw, and this was covered with a blanket. After a day in the\nopen air, with the aromatic scent of the hops all round them, the happy\npickers slept like tops. By nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow and\neveryone in bed but one or two men who still lingered in the public-house\nand would not come back till it was closed at ten. Athelny walked there\nwith Philip. But before he went Mrs. Athelny said to him:\n\n\"We breakfast about a quarter to six, but I daresay you won't want to get\nup as early as that. You see, we have to set to work at six.\"\n\n\"Of course he must get up early,\" cried Athelny, \"and he must work like\nthe rest of us. He's got to earn his board. No work, no dinner, my lad.\"\n\n\"The children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can give you a\ncall on their way back. They pass The Jolly Sailor.\"\n\n\"If they'll wake me I'll come and bathe with them,\" said Philip.\n\nJane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and next\nmorning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting into\nhis room. The boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out with\nhis slippers. He put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down. The\nday had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was\ncloudless, and the sun was shining yellow. Sally, holding Connie's hand,\nwas standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dress\nover her arm. He saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour of\nlavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple. She\ngreeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that her\nteeth were small and regular and very white. He wondered why they had\nnever caught his attention before.\n\n\"I was for letting you sleep on,\" she said, \"but they would go up and wake\nyou. I said you didn't really want to come.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I did.\"\n\nThey walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. That way it was\nunder a mile to the sea. The water looked cold and gray, and Philip\nshivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ran\nin shouting. Sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not come\ninto the water till all the rest were splashing round Philip. Swimming was\nhis only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had\nthem all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowning\nman, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. The bathe was uproarious,\nand it was necessary for Sally to be very severe to induce them all to\ncome out.\n\n\"You're as bad as any of them,\" she said to Philip, in her grave, maternal\nway, which was at once comic and touching. \"They're not anything like so\nnaughty when you're not here.\"\n\nThey walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulder\nand her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts Mrs. Athelny\nhad already started for the hop-garden. Athleny, in a pair of the oldest\ntrousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had no\nshirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire\nof sticks. He was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand.\nAs soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches' chorus from\nMacbeth over the odorous kippers.\n\n\"You mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry,\" he said,\nwhen they came up.\n\nAnd in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and butter in\ntheir hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field. They\nwere the last to leave. A hop-garden was one of the sights connected with\nPhilip's boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature of\nthe Kentish scene. It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he\nwere at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of the\nhops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. Philip feasted his\neyes on the richness of the green leaves. The hops were yellowing, and to\nhim they had the beauty and the passion which poets in Sicily have found\nin the purple grape. As they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmed\nby the rich luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, and\nthe fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the hops.\nAthelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he lifted up his voice\nand sang; it was the cracked voice of the boy of fifteen, and Sally turned\nround.\n\n\"You be quiet, Athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm.\"\n\nIn a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more came upon\nthe pickers. They were all hard at work, talking and laughing as they\npicked. They sat on chairs, on stools, on boxes, with their baskets by\ntheir sides, and some stood by the bin throwing the hops they picked\nstraight into it. There were a lot of children about and a good many\nbabies, some in makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the soft\nbrown dry earth. The children picked a little and played a great deal. The\nwomen worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and they could\npick twice as fast as foreigners from London. They boasted about the\nnumber of bushels they had picked in a day, but they complained you could\nnot make money now as in former times: then they paid you a shilling for\nfive bushels, but now the rate was eight and even nine bushels to the\nshilling. In the old days a good picker could earn enough in the season to\nkeep her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it; you\ngot a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. Mrs. Hill had bought\nherself a pianner out of what she made picking, so she said, but she was\nvery near, one wouldn't like to be near like that, and most people thought\nit was only what she said, if the truth was known perhaps it would be\nfound that she had put a bit of money from the savings bank towards it.\n\nThe hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not counting\nchildren, and Athelny loudly boasted of the day when he would have a\ncompany consisting entirely of his own family. Each company had a bin-man,\nwhose duty it was to supply it with strings of hops at their bins (the bin\nwas a large sack on a wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rows\nof them were placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this position\nthat Athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a company.\nMeanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than by exertions of his\nown. He sauntered up to Mrs. Athelny, who had been busy for half an hour\nand had already emptied a basket into the bin, and with his cigarette\nbetween his lips began to pick. He asserted that he was going to pick more\nthan anyone that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much as\nmother; that reminded him of the trials which Aphrodite put upon the\ncurious Psyche, and he began to tell his children the story of her love\nfor the unseen bridegroom. He told it very well. It seemed to Philip,\nlistening with a smile on his lips, that the old tale fitted in with the\nscene. The sky was very blue now, and he thought it could not be more\nlovely even in Greece. The children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks,\nstrong, healthy, and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; the\nchallenging emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic of\nthe green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the row, with the\npickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was more of the Greek spirit\nthere than you could find in the books of professors or in museums. He was\nthankful for the beauty of England. He thought of the winding white roads\nand the hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicate\nline of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness of the\nmarshes, and the melancholy of the North Sea. He was very glad that he\nfelt its loveliness. But presently Athelny grew restless and announced\nthat he would go and ask how Robert Kemp's mother was. He knew everyone in\nthe garden and called them all by their Christian names; he knew their\nfamily histories and all that had happened to them from birth. With\nharmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and there was a\ntouch of condescension in his familiarity. Philip would not go with him.\n\n\"I'm going to earn my dinner,\" he said.\n\n\"Quite right, my boy,\" answered Athelny, with a wave of the hand, as he\nstrolled away. \"No work, no dinner.\"\n\n\n\nCXIX\n\n\nPhilip had not a basket of his own, but sat with Sally. Jane thought it\nmonstrous that he should help her elder sister rather than herself, and he\nhad to promise to pick for her when Sally's basket was full. Sally was\nalmost as quick as her mother.\n\n\"Won't it hurt your hands for sewing?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Oh, no, it wants soft hands. That's why women pick better than men. If\nyour hands are hard and your fingers all stiff with a lot of rough work\nyou can't pick near so well.\"\n\nHe liked to see her deft movements, and she watched him too now and then\nwith that maternal spirit of hers which was so amusing and yet so\ncharming. He was clumsy at first, and she laughed at him. When she bent\nover and showed him how best to deal with a whole line their hands met. He\nwas surprised to see her blush. He could not persuade himself that she was\na woman; because he had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking\nupon her as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she\nwas a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few days one\nof Sally's cousins was already so attentive that she had to endure a lot\nof chaffing. His name was Peter Gann, and he was the son of Mrs. Athelny's\nsister, who had married a farmer near Ferne. Everyone knew why he found it\nnecessary to walk through the hop-field every day.\n\nA call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at eight, and\nthough Mrs. Athelny told them they had not deserved it, they ate it very\nheartily. They set to work again and worked till twelve, when the horn\nsounded once more for dinner. At intervals the measurer went his round\nfrom bin to bin, accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own\nbook and then in the hopper's the number of bushels picked. As each bin\nwas filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a\npoke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them\nand put on the waggon. Athelny came back now and then with stories of how\nmuch Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had picked, and he conjured his family to\nbeat her: he was always wanting to make records, and sometimes in his\nenthusiasm picked steadily for an hour. His chief amusement in it,\nhowever, was that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he\nwas excessively proud. He spent much time manicuring them. He told Philip,\nas he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the Spanish grandees had\nalways slept in oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness. The hand that\nwrung the throat of Europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and\nexquisite as a woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked\nthe hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. When he grew tired of this he\nrolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to Philip of art and literature.\nIn the afternoon it grew very hot. Work did not proceed so actively and\nconversation halted. The incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to\ndesultory remarks. Tiny beads of sweat stood on Sally's upper lip, and as\nshe worked her lips were slightly parted. She was like a rosebud bursting\ninto flower.\n\nCalling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house. Sometimes it was\nfilled early, and as many hops had been picked by three or four as could\nbe dried during the night. Then work was stopped. But generally the last\nmeasuring of the day began at five. As each company had its bin measured\nit gathered up its things and, chatting again now that work was over,\nsauntered out of the garden. The women went back to the huts to clean up\nand prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the\nroad to the public-house. A glass of beer was very pleasant after the\nday's work.\n\nThe Athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with. When the measurer came\nMrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and stretched her arms: she\nhad been sitting in the same position for many hours and was stiff.\n\n\"Now, let's go to The Jolly Sailor,\" said Athelny. \"The rites of the day\nmust be duly performed, and there is none more sacred than that.\"\n\n\"Take a jug with you, Athelny,\" said his wife, \"and bring back a pint and\na half for supper.\"\n\nShe gave him the money, copper by copper. The bar-parlour was already well\nfilled. It had a sanded floor, benches round it, and yellow pictures of\nVictorian prize-fighters on the walls. The licencee knew all his customers\nby name, and he leaned over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who\nwere throwing rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure\nwas greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the company.\nRoom was made for the new arrivals. Philip found himself sitting between\nan old labourer in corduroys, with string tied under his knees, and a\nshiny-faced lad of seventeen with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red\nforehead. Athelny insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings. He\nbacked himself for half a pint and won it. As he drank the loser's health\nhe said:\n\n\"I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my boy.\"\n\nHe was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and pointed beard,\namong those country folk, and it was easy to see that they thought him\nvery queer; but his spirits were so high, his enthusiasm so contagious,\nthat it was impossible not to like him. Conversation went easily. A\ncertain number of pleasantries were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of\nthe Isle of Thanet, and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of\nthe local wag. A pleasant gathering! It would have been a hard-hearted\nperson who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows. Philip's\neyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still; there\nwere little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like those of a\ncottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums. In due course one\nby one the idlers got up and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was\ncooking.\n\n\"I expect you'll be ready for your bed,\" said Mrs. Athelny to Philip.\n\"You're not used to getting up at five and staying in the open air all\nday.\"\n\n\"You're coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren't you?\" the boys cried.\n\n\"Rather.\"\n\nHe was tired and happy. After supper, balancing himself against the wall\nof the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his pipe and looked at the\nnight. Sally was busy. She passed in and out of the hut, and he lazily\nwatched her methodical actions. Her walk attracted his notice; it was not\nparticularly graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs\nfrom the hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision.\nAthelny had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently\nPhilip heard his wife address the world in general.\n\n\"There now, I'm out of tea and I wanted Athelny to go down to Mrs. Black's\nand get some.\" A pause, and then her voice was raised: \"Sally, just run\ndown to Mrs. Black's and get me half a pound of tea, will you? I've run\nquite out of it.\"\n\n\"All right, mother.\"\n\nMrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and she\ncombined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider. Sally\ncame out of the hut, turning down her sleeves.\n\n\"Shall I come with you, Sally?\" asked Philip.\n\n\"Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone.\"\n\n\"I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and I was just\nthinking I'd like to stretch my legs.\"\n\nSally did not answer, and they set out together. The road was white and\nsilent. There was not a sound in the summer night. They did not speak\nmuch.\n\n\"It's quite hot even now, isn't it?\" said Philip.\n\n\"I think it's wonderful for the time of year.\"\n\nBut their silence did not seem awkward. They found it was pleasant to walk\nside by side and felt no need of words. Suddenly at a stile in the\nhedgerow they heard a low murmur of voices, and in the darkness they saw\nthe outline of two people. They were sitting very close to one another and\ndid not move as Philip and Sally passed.\n\n\"I wonder who that was,\" said Sally.\n\n\"They looked happy enough, didn't they?\"\n\n\"I expect they took us for lovers too.\"\n\nThey saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a minute went\ninto the little shop. The glare dazzled them for a moment.\n\n\"You are late,\" said Mrs. Black. \"I was just going to shut up.\" She looked\nat the clock. \"Getting on for nine.\"\n\nSally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny could never bring\nherself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they set off up the\nroad again. Now and then some beast of the night made a short, sharp\nsound, but it seemed only to make the silence more marked.\n\n\"I believe if you stood still you could hear the sea,\" said Sally.\n\nThey strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a faint\nsound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. When they passed the\nstile again the lovers were still there, but now they were not speaking;\nthey were in one another's arms, and the man's lips were pressed against\nthe girl's.\n\n\"They seem busy,\" said Sally.\n\nThey turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a moment against\ntheir faces. The earth gave forth its freshness. There was something\nstrange in the tremulous night, and something, you knew not what, seemed\nto be waiting; the silence was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philip\nhad a queer feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt\n(the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felt\nhappy and anxious and expectant. To his memory came back those lines in\nwhich Jessica and Lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another, capping\neach other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear through the\nconceits that amuse them. He did not know what there was in the air that\nmade his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure soul\nto enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the earth. He had\nnever felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty. He was afraid that Sally\nby speaking would break the spell, but she said never a word, and he\nwanted to hear the sound of her voice. Its low richness was the voice of\nthe country night itself.\n\nThey arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to the\nhuts. Philip went in to hold the gate open for her.\n\n\"Well, here I think I'll say good-night.\"\n\n\"Thank you for coming all that way with me.\"\n\nShe gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said:\n\n\"If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of the\nfamily.\"\n\n\"I don't mind,\" she said.\n\nPhilip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss her, because he was\nhappy and he liked her and the night was so lovely.\n\n\"Good-night then,\" he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him.\n\nShe gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered a\nlittle, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaning\nit, he flung his arms round her. She yielded quite silently. Her body was\nfirm and strong. He felt her heart beat against his. Then he lost his\nhead. His senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drew\nher into the darker shadow of the hedge.\n\n\n\nCXX\n\n\nPhilip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold tickling his\nface with a feather. There was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes.\nHe was drunken with sleep.\n\n\"Come on, lazybones,\" said Jane. \"Sally says she won't wait for you unless\nyou hurry up.\"\n\nThen he remembered what had happened. His heart sank, and, half out of bed\nalready, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he was\noverwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly,\nhe regretted what he had done. What would she say to him that morning? He\ndreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a\nfool. But the children gave him no time; Edward took his bathing-drawers\nand his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutes\nthey all clattered down into the road. Sally gave him a smile. It was as\nsweet and innocent as it had ever been.\n\n\"You do take a time to dress yourself,\" she said. \"I thought you was never\ncoming.\"\n\nThere was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had expected some\nchange, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way\nshe treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but\nthere was nothing. She was exactly the same as before. They walked towards\nthe sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she\nwas always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and\ngentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. Philip\nwas astounded. He had expected the incident of the night before to have\ncaused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had\nhappened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little\ngirl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he\nchatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. He\nwondered whether Sally meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps her\nsenses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what had\noccurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that she\nhad decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was ascribing to her a\npower of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age nor\nwith her character. But he realised that he knew nothing of her. There had\nbeen in her always something enigmatic.\n\nThey played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as uproarious as on\nthe previous day. Sally mothered them all, keeping a watchful eye on them,\nand calling to them when they went out too far. She swam staidly backwards\nand forwards while the others got up to their larks, and now and then\nturned on her back to float. Presently she went out and began drying\nherself; she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at last\nonly Philip was left in the water. He took the opportunity to have a good\nhard swim. He was more used to the cold water this second morning, and he\nrevelled in its salt freshness; it rejoiced him to use his limbs freely,\nand he covered the water with long, firm strokes. But Sally, with a towel\nround her, went down to the water's edge.\n\n\"You're to come out this minute, Philip,\" she called, as though he were a\nsmall boy under her charge.\n\nAnd when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he came towards\nher, she upbraided him.\n\n\"It is naughty of you to stay in so long. Your lips are quite blue, and\njust look at your teeth, they're chattering.\"\n\n\"All right. I'll come out.\"\n\nShe had never talked to him in that manner before. It was as though what\nhad happened gave her a sort of right over him, and she looked upon him as\na child to be cared for. In a few minutes they were dressed, and they\nstarted to walk back. Sally noticed his hands.\n\n\"Just look, they're quite blue.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right. It's only the circulation. I shall get the blood\nback in a minute.\"\n\n\"Give them to me.\"\n\nShe took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then the other,\ntill the colour returned. Philip, touched and puzzled, watched her. He\ncould not say anything to her on account of the children, and he did not\nmeet her eyes; but he was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it just\nhappened that they did not meet. And during the day there was nothing in\nher behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had passed\nbetween them. Perhaps she was a little more talkative than usual. When\nthey were all sitting again in the hop-field she told her mother how\nnaughty Philip had been in not coming out of the water till he was blue\nwith cold. It was incredible, and yet it seemed that the only effect of\nthe incident of the night before was to arouse in her a feeling of\nprotection towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother him\nas she had with regard to her brothers and sisters.\n\nIt was not till the evening that he found himself alone with her. She was\ncooking the supper, and Philip was sitting on the grass by the side of the\nfire. Mrs. Athelny had gone down to the village to do some shopping, and\nthe children were scattered in various pursuits of their own. Philip\nhesitated to speak. He was very nervous. Sally attended to her business\nwith serene competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to him\nwas so embarrassing. He did not know how to begin. Sally seldom spoke\nunless she was spoken to or had something particular to say. At last he\ncould not bear it any longer.\n\n\"You're not angry with me, Sally?\" he blurted out suddenly.\n\nShe raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion.\n\n\"Me? No. Why should I be?\"\n\nHe was taken aback and did not reply. She took the lid off the pot,\nstirred the contents, and put it on again. A savoury smell spread over the\nair. She looked at him once more, with a quiet smile which barely\nseparated her lips; it was more a smile of the eyes.\n\n\"I always liked you,\" she said.\n\nHis heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the blood\nrushing to his cheeks. He forced a faint laugh.\n\n\"I didn't know that.\"\n\n\"That's because you're a silly.\"\n\n\"I don't know why you liked me.\"\n\n\"I don't either.\" She put a little more wood on the fire. \"I knew I liked\nyou that day you came when you'd been sleeping out and hadn't had anything\nto eat, d'you remember? And me and mother, we got Thorpy's bed ready for\nyou.\"\n\nHe flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that incident.\nHe remembered it himself with horror and shame.\n\n\"That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You remember\nthat young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him come to tea because\nhe bothered so, but I knew I'd say no.\"\n\nPhilip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was a queer\nfeeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it was\nhappiness. Sally stirred the pot once more.\n\n\"I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know where\nthey've got to. Supper's ready now.\"\n\n\"Shall I go and see if I can find them?\" said Philip.\n\nIt was a relief to talk about practical things.\n\n\"Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother coming.\"\n\nThen, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment.\n\n\"Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the children to\nbed?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm ready.\"\n\nHe waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their\nripening blackberries were high on each side of him. From the earth rose\nrich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. His heart was\nbeating madly. He could not understand anything of what happened to him.\nHe associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was\nnothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion could\nhave caused her to give herself. But passion for him? He would not have\nbeen surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare,\nand straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride. Philip\nwondered what she saw in him. He did not know if she loved him as he\nreckoned love. And yet? He was convinced of her purity. He had a vague\ninkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though was\nunconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night,\nthe healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed,\nand an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly;\nand she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity.\n\nHe heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness.\n\n\"Sally,\" he murmured.\n\nShe stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odours\nof the country-side. She seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mown\nhay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. Her\nlips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firm\nwithin his arms.\n\n\"Milk and honey,\" he said. \"You're like milk and honey.\"\n\nHe made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then the\nother. Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed his\nhand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she\nhad the skin that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, and\non one side were little golden hairs. It was the arm of a Saxon goddess;\nbut no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thought\nof a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's hearts,\nof the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called York and\nLancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and Sweet William, and honeysuckle,\nlarkspur, and London Pride.\n\n\"How can you care for me?\" he said. \"I'm insignificant and crippled and\nordinary and ugly.\"\n\nShe took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips.\n\n\"You're an old silly, that's what you are,\" she said.\n\n\n\nCXXI\n\n\nWhen the hops were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket that he had\ngot the appointment as assistant house-physician at St. Luke's,\naccompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took modest rooms in\nWestminster and at the beginning of October entered upon his duties. The\nwork was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; he\nfelt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. He\nfound life uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the days\non which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which Sally\nworked to meet her when she came out. There were several young men, who\nhung about opposite the 'trade entrance' or a little further along, at the\nfirst corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups,\nnudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plain\nblack dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked\nhops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop quickly, but she\nslackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile.\nThey walked together through the busy street. He talked to her of his work\nat the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop that\nday. He came to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found that\nSally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she made\nremarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused him\nby their unexpected drollery. She had a way of saying a thing which was\nvery characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny in\nit at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke into\ndelighted laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which the\nsmiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They met with\na handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked her to come and have\ntea with him in his rooms, but she refused.\n\n\"No, I won't do that. It would look funny.\"\n\nNever a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to desire\nanything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet Philip was\npositive that she was glad to be with him. She puzzled him as much as she\nhad done at the beginning. He did not begin to understand her conduct; but\nthe more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self\ncontrolled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you\ncould rely upon her in every circumstance.\n\n\"You are an awfully good sort,\" he said to her once a propos of nothing\nat all.\n\n\"I expect I'm just the same as everyone else,\" she answered.\n\nHe knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he felt\nfor her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had\na feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards a\nshop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. And he admired her magnificent\nhealthiness. She was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical\nperfection filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feel\nunworthy.\n\nThen, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to London as\nthey walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. The\nserenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between the\neyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown.\n\n\"What's the matter, Sally?\" he asked.\n\nShe did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colour\ndarkened.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nHe understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden, quick beat,\nand he felt the colour leave his cheeks.\n\n\"What d'you mean? Are you afraid that... ?\"\n\nHe stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of the sort\ncould happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw that her lips were\ntrembling, and she was trying not to cry.\n\n\"I'm not certain yet. Perhaps it'll be all right.\"\n\nThey walked on in silence till they came to the corner of Chancery Lane,\nwhere he always left her. She held out her hand and smiled.\n\n\"Don't worry about it yet. Let's hope for the best.\"\n\nHe walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. What a fool he had\nbeen! That was the first thing that struck him, an abject, miserable fool,\nand he repeated it to himself a dozen times in a rush of angry feeling. He\ndespised himself. How could he have got into such a mess? But at the same\ntime, for his thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemed\nto stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a jig-saw\npuzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was going to do.\nEverything was so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long within\nreach at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected this new\nobstacle. Philip had never been able to surmount what he acknowledged was\na defect in his resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was his\npassion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his work\nat the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements for his\ntravels. In the past he had often tried not to think too circumstantially\nof his plans for the future, it was only discouraging; but now that his\ngoal was so near he saw no harm in giving away to a longing that was so\ndifficult to resist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was the\nland of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its romance\nand colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had a message for him\nin particular which no other country could give. He knew the fine old\ncities already as though he had trodden their tortuous streets from\nchildhood. Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The great\npainters of Spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beat\nquickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with those\nworks which were more significant than any others to his own tortured,\nrestless heart. He had read the great poets, more characteristic of their\nrace than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn their\ninspiration not at all from the general currents of the world's literature\nbut directly from the torrid, scented plains and the bleak mountains of\ntheir country. A few short months now, and he would hear with his own ears\nall around him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul and\npassion. His fine taste had given him an inkling that Andalusia was too\nsoft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his ardour; and his\nimagination dwelt more willingly among the wind-swept distances of Castile\nand the rugged magnificence of Aragon and Leon. He did not know quite what\nthose unknown contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gather\nfrom them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable of\naffronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places more distant\nand more strange.\n\nFor this was only a beginning. He had got into communication with the\nvarious companies which took surgeons out on their ships, and knew exactly\nwhat were their routes, and from men who had been on them what were the\nadvantages and disadvantages of each line. He put aside the Orient and the\nP. & O. It was difficult to get a berth with them; and besides their\npassenger traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but there\nwere other services which sent large tramps on leisurely expeditions to\nthe East, stopping at all sorts of ports for various periods, from a day\nor two to a fortnight, so that you had plenty of time, and it was often\npossible to make a trip inland. The pay was poor and the food no more than\nadequate, so that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man with\na London degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. Since there were\nno passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping on business from\nsome out-of-the-way port to another, the life on board was friendly and\npleasant. Philip knew by heart the list of places at which they touched;\nand each one called up in him visions of tropical sunshine, and magic\ncolour, and of a teeming, mysterious, intense life. Life! That was what he\nwanted. At last he would come to close quarters with Life. And perhaps,\nfrom Tokyo or Shanghai it would be possible to tranship into some other\nline and drip down to the islands of the South Pacific. A doctor was\nuseful anywhere. There might be an opportunity to go up country in Burmah,\nand what rich jungles in Sumatra or Borneo might he not visit? He was\nyoung still and time was no object to him. He had no ties in England, no\nfriends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning the beauty\nand the wonder and the variedness of life.\n\nNow this thing had come. He put aside the possibility that Sally was\nmistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it was\nso likely; anyone could see that Nature had built her to be the mother of\nchildren. He knew what he ought to do. He ought not to let the incident\ndivert him a hair's breadth from his path. He thought of Griffiths; he\ncould easily imagine with what indifference that young man would have\nreceived such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance\nand would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he would\nhave left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could. Philip\ntold himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable.\nHe was no more to blame than Sally; she was a girl who knew the world and\nthe facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open. It would\nbe madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his\nlife. He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the\ntransitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it.\nHe would do what he could for Sally; he could afford to give her a\nsufficient sum of money. A strong man would never allow himself to be\nturned from his purpose.\n\nPhilip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it. He simply\ncould not. He knew himself.\n\n\"I'm so damned weak,\" he muttered despairingly.\n\nShe had trusted him and been kind to him. He simply could not do a thing\nwhich, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible. He knew he\nwould have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly with\nhim that she was wretched. Besides, there were her father and mother: they\nhad always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with\ningratitude. The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as possible. He\nwould write to Doctor South, tell him he was going to be married at once,\nand say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it. That\nsort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him;\nthere his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple\nmanners of his wife. It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave\nhim a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as he\nthought of the child which was his. He had little doubt that Doctor South\nwould be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he would\nlead with Sally in the fishing village. They would have a little house\nwithin sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing to\nthe lands he would never know. Perhaps that was the wisest thing. Cronshaw\nhad told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by the\npower of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time. It was true.\nForever wilt thou love and she be fair!\n\nHis wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes.\nSelf-sacrifice! Philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all through the\nevening he thought of it. He was so excited that he could not read. He\nseemed to be driven out of his rooms into the streets, and he walked up\nand down Birdcage Walk, his heart throbbing with joy. He could hardly bear\nhis impatience. He wanted to see Sally's happiness when he made her his\noffer, and if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there and\nthen. He pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend with Sally\nin the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that they could watch the\nsea; he with his books, while she bent over her work, and the shaded lamp\nmade her sweet face more fair. They would talk over the growing child, and\nwhen she turned her eyes to his there was in them the light of love. And\nthe fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to feel a\ngreat affection for them, and they in their turn would enter into the\npleasures and pains of those simple lives. But his thoughts returned to\nthe son who would be his and hers. Already he felt in himself a passionate\ndevotion to it. He thought of passing his hands over his little perfect\nlimbs, he knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him all\nhis dreams of a rich and varied life. And thinking over the long\npilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. He accepted the deformity\nwhich had made life so hard for him; he knew that it had warped his\ncharacter, but now he saw also that by reason of it he had acquired that\npower of introspection which had given him so much delight. Without it he\nwould never have had his keen appreciation of beauty, his passion for art\nand literature, and his interest in the varied spectacle of life. The\nridicule and the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him had\nturned his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt would\nnever lose their fragrance. Then he saw that the normal was the rarest\nthing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of body or of mind: he\nthought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a\nsick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long\nprocession, deformed in body and warped in mind, some with illness of the\nflesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit,\nlanguor of will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel a\nholy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments of blind\nchance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for the\npain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The only\nreasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with their\nfaults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory:\n\nForgive them, for they know not what they do.\n\n\n\nCXXII\n\n\nHe had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was\nto come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to\nlunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his\nexultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in\nthe feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to\nhimself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his\nimpatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his\npocket a telegram from him received that morning: \"Sacking the mumpish\nfool. When will you come?\" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was\na fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance\nin the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance,\nand it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed\nTrafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he\nsaw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same\nfigure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so\ncharacteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he\nhurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it\nwas someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with\na lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved,\nbut it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was\nseized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion?\nAt the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a\nstrange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That\nlove had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never\nquite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire.\n\nBut he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her\nkind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile.\nHe walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first\nroom, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always\ncomforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but\nallowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to\nwork upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be\npleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual\nfigure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had\nlearned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and\nhe was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a\nrarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black,\nwith white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They\nshook hands.\n\n\"Have you been waiting long?\"\n\n\"No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?\"\n\n\"Not very.\"\n\n\"Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?\"\n\n\"If you like.\"\n\nThey sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having\nher near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemed\nlike an aureole to shine about her.\n\n\"Well, how have you been?\" he said at last, with a little smile.\n\n\"Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm.\"\n\n\"Was it?\"\n\n\"Aren't you glad?\"\n\nAn extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally's\nsuspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant\nthat there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly\noverthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than\na dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He\nneed give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him\nto do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His\nheart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It\nwas as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters,\nwith peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as\nhe was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out\nagain into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these\nsoft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean\nfilled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and\nthe tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes.\n\n\"Aren't you glad?\" she asked again. \"I thought you'd be as pleased as\nPunch.\"\n\nHe met her gaze haggardly. \"I'm not sure,\" he muttered.\n\n\"You are funny. Most men would.\"\n\nHe realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that\nhad driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home\nand love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was\nseized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world.\nWhat did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to\nhim were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands?\nAmerica was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had\nfollowed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings,\nhad instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his\ncourse had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what\nhe wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a\ngesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present\nalways, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of\nhis desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad,\nmeaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern,\nthat in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was\nlikewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was\nto accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.\n\nHe glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then\nlooked away again.\n\n\"I was going to ask you to marry me,\" he said.\n\n\"I thought p'raps you might, but I shouldn't have liked to stand in your\nway.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't have done that.\"\n\n\"How about your travels, Spain and all that?\"\n\n\"How d'you know I want to travel?\"\n\n\"I ought to know something about it. I've heard you and Dad talk about it\ntill you were blue in the face.\"\n\n\"I don't care a damn about all that.\" He paused for an instant and then\nspoke in a low, hoarse whisper. \"I don't want to leave you! I can't leave\nyou.\"\n\nShe did not answer. He could not tell what she thought.\n\n\"I wonder if you'll marry me, Sally.\"\n\nShe did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but she\ndid not look at him when she answered.\n\n\"If you like.\"\n\n\"Don't you want to?\"\n\n\"Oh, of course I'd like to have a house of my own, and it's about time I\nwas settling down.\"\n\nHe smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did not\nsurprise him.\n\n\"But don't you want to marry ME?\"\n\n\"There's no one else I would marry.\"\n\n\"Then that settles it.\"\n\n\"Mother and Dad will be surprised, won't they?\"\n\n\"I'm so happy.\"\n\n\"I want my lunch,\" she said.\n\n\"Dear!\"\n\nHe smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and walked out of\nthe gallery. They stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked at\nTrafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds\npassed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining."