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OF HUMAN BONDAGE, by W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM


Digitized by Cardinalis Etext Press, C.E.K.
Posted to Wiretap in July 1993, as humbond.txt.

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                       OF HUMAN BONDAGE
                              BY
                      W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

                     GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
                DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
                        COPYRIGHT, 1915
                  BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
                        OF HUMAN BONDAGE
           PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


CHAPTER I

THE day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there
was a rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant
came into a room in which a child was sleeping and drew the
curtains. She glanced mechanically at the house opposite, a
stucco house with a portico, and went to the child's bed.

"Wake up, Philip," she said.

She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and
carried him downstairs. He was only half awake.

"Your mother wants you," she said.

She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the
child over to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his
mother. She stretched out her arms, and the child nestled by her
side. He did not ask why he had been awakened. The woman kissed
his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt the warm body through
his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer to herself.

"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said.

Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a
great distance. The child did not answer, but smiled
comfortably. He was very happy in the large, warm bed, with
those soft arms about him. He tried to make himself smaller
still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he kissed her
sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.
The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.

"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned.

The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing
she would not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the
woman kissed him again; and she passed her hand down his body
till she came to his feet; she held the right foot in her hand
and felt the five small toes; and then slowly passed her hand
over the left one. She gave a sob.

"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired."

She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down
her cheeks. The doctor bent down.

"Let me take him."

She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up.
The doctor handed him back to his nurse.

"You'd better put him back in his own bed."

"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken
away. His mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.

"What will happen to him, poor child?"

The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from
exhaustion, the crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on
the other side of the room, upon which, under a towel, lay the
body of a still-born child. He lifted the towel and looked. He
was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the woman guessed what
he was doing.

"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse.

"Another boy."

The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came
back. She approached the bed.

"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then
the doctor felt his patient's pulse once more.

"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said.
"I'll call again after breakfast."

"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse.

They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor
stopped."

You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"D'you know at what time he'll be here?"

"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram."

"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of
the way."

"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir."

"Who's she?"

"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over
it, sir?"

The doctor shook his head.


CHAPTER II

IT was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the
drawing-room at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an
only child and used to amusing himself. The room was filled with
massive furniture, and on each of the sofas were three big
cushions. There was a cushion too in each arm-chair. All these
he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout chairs, light
and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he could
hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the
curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd
of buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing
the door open, he held his breath so that he might not be
discovered; but a violent hand piled away a chair and the
cushions fell down.

"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin _will_ be cross with you."

"Hulloa, Emma!" he said.

The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the
cushions, and put them back in their places.

"Am I to come home?" he asked. "Yes, I've come to fetch you."

"You've got a new dress on."

It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown
was of black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders,
and the skirt had three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet
with velvet strings. She hesitated. The question she had
expected did not come, and so she could not give the answer she
had prepared.

"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length.

"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?"

Now she was ready.

"Your mamma is quite well and happy."

"Oh, I am glad."

"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more."
Philip did not know what she meant.

"Why not?"

"Your mamma's in heaven."

She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite under-
stand, cried too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair
hair and large features. She came from Devonshire and,
notwithstanding her many years of service in London, had never
lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her emotion,
and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely
the pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world
that is quite unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be
handed over to strangers. But in a little while she pulled
herself together.

"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and
say good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home."

"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively
anxious to hide his tears.

"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat."

He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in
the hall. He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the
dining-room. He paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister
were talking to friends, and it seemed to him--he was nine years
old--that if he went in they would be sorry for him.

"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin."

"I think you'd better," said Emma.

"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said.

He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at
the door and walked in. He heard her speak.

"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss."

There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped
in. Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed
hair. In those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip
had heard much gossip at home when his godmother's changed
colour. She lived with an elder sister, who had resigned herself
contentedly to old age. Two ladies, whom Philip did not know,
were calling, and they looked at him curiously.

"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.

She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in
to luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.

"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last.

He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed
him again. Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too.
One of the strange ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he
gravely gave her permission. Though crying, he keenly enjoyed
the sensation he was causing; he would have been glad to stay a
little longer to be made much of, but felt they expected him to
go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out of the
room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the
basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard
Henrietta Watkin's voice.

"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that
she's dead."

"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her
sister. "I knew it would upset you."

Then one of the strangers spoke.

"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in
the world. I see he limps."

"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother."

Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the
driver where to go.


CHAPTER III

WHEN they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a
dreary, respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High
Street, Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His
uncle was writing letters of thanks for the wreaths which had
been sent. One of them, which had arrived too late for the
funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the hall-table.

"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.

Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy.
Then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He
was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to
corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so
as to conceal his baldness. He was clean-shaven. His features
were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth
he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a gold
cross.

"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey.
"Shall you like that?"

Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the
vicarage after an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with
him a recollection of an attic and a large garden rather than of
his uncle and aunt.

"Yes."

"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and
mother."

The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not
answer.

"Your dear mother left you in my charge."

Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news
came that his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for
London, but on the way thought of nothing but the disturbance in
his life that would be caused if her death forced him to
undertake the care of her son. He was well over fifty, and his
wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was
childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the
presence of a small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had
never much liked his sister-in-law.

"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.

"With Emma?"

The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.

"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.

"But I want Emma to come with me."

Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too.
Mr. Carey looked at them helplessly.

"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a
moment."

"Very good, sir."

Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr.
Carey took the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.

"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now.
We must see about sending you to school."

"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.

"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very
much, and I don't know what's become of it. You must look at
every penny you spend."

Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor.
Philip's father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital
appointments suggested an established position; so that it was
a surprise on his sudden death from blood-poisoning to find that
he had left his widow little more than his life insurance and
what could be got for the lease of their house in Bruton Street.
This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in delicate
health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and
accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored
her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought
outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might
suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born. But she
had never been used to the management of money, and was unable
to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances. The
little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and
another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more
than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was
able to earn his own living. It was impossible to explain all
this to Philip and he was sobbing still.

"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she
could console the child better than anyone.

Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr.
Carey stopped him."

We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my
sermon, and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today.
You can bring all your toys. And if you want anything to
remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for
each of them. Everything else is going to be sold."

The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work,
and he turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side
of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with
irritation. One especially seemed preposterous. Immediately
after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered from the florist
masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman
lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon
herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would
have dismissed her.

But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept
as though his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was
almost her own son--she had taken him when he was a month
old--consoled him with soft words. She promised that she would
come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him;
and she told him about the country he was going to and about her
own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike on the
high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty,
and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till
Philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his
approaching journey. Presently she put him down, for there was
much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the
bed. She sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in
a little while he was playing happily.

But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the
bed-room, in which Emma was now putting his things into a big
tin box; he remembered then that his uncle had said he might
take something to remember his father and mother by. He told
Emma and asked her what he should take.

"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."

"Uncle William's there."

"Never mind that. They're your own things now."

Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey
had left the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in
the house so short a time that there was little in it that had
a particular interest to him. It was a stranger's room, and
Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. But he knew which were
his mother's things and which belonged to the landlord, and
presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather
disconsolately upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's
bed-room he stopped and listened. Though no one had told him not
to go in, he had a feeling that it would be wrong to do so; he
was a little frightened, and his heart beat uncomfortably; but
at the same time something impelled him to turn the handle. He
turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the
threshold for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He
was not frightened now, but it seemed strange. He closed the
door behind him. The blinds were drawn, and the room, in the
cold light of a January afternoon, was dark. On the
dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In
a little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself
on the chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in
the room when his mother was not in it, but now it seemed
different. There was something curious in the look of the
chairs. The bed was made as though someone were going to sleep
in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a night-dress.

Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping
in, took as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his
face in them. They smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he
pulled open the drawers, filled with his mother's things, and
looked at them: there were lavender bags among the linen, and
their scent was fresh and pleasant. The strangeness of the room
left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had just gone out
for a walk. She would be in presently and would come upstairs to
have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on his
lips.

It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not
true simply because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed
and put his head on the pillow. He lay there quite still.


CHAPTER IV

PHILIP parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to
Blackstable amused him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned
and cheerful. Blackstable was sixty miles from London. Giving
their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set out to walk with Philip
to the vicarage; it took them little more than five minutes,
and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the gate.
It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges;
and it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and
forwards on it. They walked through the garden to the
front-door. This was only used by visitors and on Sundays, and
on special occasions, as when the Vicar went up to London or
came back. The traffic of the house took place through a
side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener
and for beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of
yellow brick, with a red roof, built about five and twenty years
before in an ecclesiastical style. The front-door was like a
church porch, and the drawing-room windows were gothic.

Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in
the drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When
she heard it she went to the door.

"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and
give her a kiss."

Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and
then stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the
same age as her husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with
deep wrinkles, and pale blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in
ringlets according to the fashion of her youth. She wore a black
dress, and her only ornament was a gold chain, from which hung
a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice.

"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she
kissed her husband.

"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his
nephew.

"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the
child.

"No. I always walk."

He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa
told him to come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved
with red and yellow tiles, on which alternately were a Greek
Cross and the Lamb of God. An imposing staircase led out of the
hall. It was of polished pine, with a peculiar smell, and had
been put in because fortunately, when the church was reseated,
enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with
emblems of the Four Evangelists.

"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after
your journey," said Mrs. Carey.

It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only
lighted if the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It
was not lighted if Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive.
Besides, Mary Ann, the maid, didn't like fires all over the
place. If they wanted all them fires they must keep a second
girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the dining-room
so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not get
out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey
on Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a
fire in the study so that he could write his sermon.

Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny
bed-room that looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of
the window was a large tree, which Philip remembered now because
the branches were so low that it was possible to climb quite
high up it.

"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be
frightened at sleeping alone?"

"Oh, no."

On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse,
and Mrs. Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him
now with some uncertainty.

"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?"

"I can wash myself," he answered firmly.

"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said
Mrs. Carey.

She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that
Philip should come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought
much how she should treat him; she was anxious to do her duty;
but now he was there she found herself just as shy of him as he
was of her. She hoped he would not be noisy and rough, because
her husband did not like rough and noisy boys. Mrs. Carey made
an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back and
knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he
could pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and
rang the bell for tea.

The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two
sides of it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big
table in the middle; and at one end an imposing mahogany
sideboard with a looking-glass in it. In one corner stood a
harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs covered in
stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and was
called the husband, and the other had none and was called the
wife. Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she
preferred a chair that was not too comfortable; there was always
a lot to do, and if her chair had had arms she might not be so
ready to leave it.

Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he
pointed out to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was
large and bright and polished and unused, and was called the
Vicar; and the other, which was much smaller and had evidently
passed through many fires, was called the Curate.

"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey.

"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry
after your journey."

Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very
tiring. She seldom travelled herself, for the living was only
three hundred a year, and, when her husband wanted a holiday,
since there was not money for two, he went by himself. He was
very fond of Church Congresses and usually managed to go up to
London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for the
exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann
brought in the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too
low for Philip, and for a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife
knew what to do.

"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann.

She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the
prayer-book from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers,
and put them on Philip's chair.

"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a
shocked tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the
study?"

Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.

"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book
on the top, Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is
the composition of men like ourselves. It has no claim to divine
authorship."

"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa.

Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said
grace, cut the top off his egg.

"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if
you like."

Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not
offered one, so took what he could.

"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the
Vicar.

"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day."

"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle.

"Very much, thank you."

"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon."

Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he
might be fortified for the evening service.


CHAPTER V

PHILIP came gradually to know the people he was to live with,
and by fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his
ears, learned a good deal both about himself and about his dead
parents. Philip's father had been much younger than the Vicar of
Blackstable. After a brilliant career at St. Luke's Hospital he
was put on the staff, and presently began to earn money in
considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson set about
restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,
he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr.
Carey, thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity,
accepted it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother
because he could afford to give so much, pleased for the sake of
his church, and vaguely irritated by a generosity which seemed
almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a patient, a
beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,
but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at
the wedding. The parson, on his visits to her when he came to
London, held himself with reserve. He felt shy with her and in
his heart he resented her great beauty: she dressed more
magnificently than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and
the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among which she
lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he
deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to;
and, as he told his wife on getting home again, it was
impossible to accept hospitality without making some return. He
had seen grapes in the dining-room that must have cost at least
eight shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given
asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage garden.
Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar felt the
satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor
Philip was practically penniless, and what was the good of his
mother's fine friends now? He heard that his father's
extravagance was really criminal, and it was a mercy that
Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to itself: she
had no more idea of money than a child.

When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened
which seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he
found on the breakfast table a small packet which had been sent
on by post from the late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was
addressed to her. When the parson opened it he found a dozen
photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed the head and shoulders
only, and her hair was more plainly done than usual, low on the
forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was thin and
worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not
remember. The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a
little shock, but this was quickly followed by perplexity. The
photographs seemed quite recent, and he could not imagine who
had ordered them.

"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.

"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss
Watkin scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have
something to remember me by when he grows up."

Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a
clear treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to
him.

"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your
room," said Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."

He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they
came to be taken.

One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a
little better than usual, and the doctor in the morning had
seemed hopeful; Emma had taken the child out, and the maids were
downstairs in the basement: suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately
alone in the world. A great fear seized her that she would not
recover from the confinement which she was expecting in a
fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be expected
to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so
passionately, because he was weakly and deformed, and because he
was her child. She had no photographs of herself taken since her
marriage, and that was ten years before. She wanted her son to
know what she looked like at the end. He could not forget her
then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called her maid
and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength
now to struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress
herself. She had been on her back so long that her legs gave way
beneath her, and then the soles of her feet tingled so that she
could hardly bear to put them to the ground. But she went on.
She was unused to doing her own hair and, when she raised her
arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never do
it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a
deep rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on
a black skirt, but chose the bodice of the evening dress which
she liked best: it was of a white damask which was fashionable
in those days. She looked at herself in the glass. Her face was
very pale, but her skin was clear: she had never had much
colour, and this had always made the redness of her beautiful
mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already
desperately tired; and she put on the furs which Henry had given
her the Christmas before--she had been so proud of them and so
happy then--and slipped downstairs with beating heart. She got
safely out of the house and drove to a photographer. She paid
for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to ask for a glass of
water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant, seeing
she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and
she drove back again to the dingy little house in Kensington
which she hated with all her heart. It was a horrible house to
die in.

She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid
and Emma ran down the steps to help her. They had been
frightened when they found her room empty. At first they thought
she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and the cook was sent round.
Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting anxiously in the
drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was
fit for, and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed
she gave way. She fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried
upstairs. She remained unconscious for a time that seemed
incredibly long to those that watched her, and the doctor,
hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day, when she was
a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room,
and neither of the ladies paid attention to him. He only
understood vaguely what they were talking about, and he could
not have said why those words remained in his memory.

"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he
grows up."

"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two
would have done."


CHAPTER VI

ONE day was very like another at the vicarage.

Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in _The Times_. Mr.
Carey shared it with two neighbours. He had it from ten till
one, when the gardener took it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes,
with whom it remained till seven; then it was taken to Miss
Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it late, had the
advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was
making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with.
When the Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her
bonnet and went out to do the shopping. Philip accompanied her.
Blackstable was a fishing village. It consisted of a high street
in which were the shops, the bank, the doctor's house, and the
houses of two or three coalship owners; round the little harbor
were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor people;
but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.
Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped
over to the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was
not time for this fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a
scandal to which the Vicar had never resigned himself that there
were three chapels in the High Street: he could not help feeling
that the law should have stepped in to prevent their erection.
Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for dissent,
helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the
town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with
churchgoers; Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom
might make all the difference to a tradesman's faith. There were
two butchers who went to church, and they would not understand
that the Vicar could not deal with both of them at once; nor
were they satisfied with his simple plan of going for six months
to one and for six months to the other. The butcher who was not
sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come
to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat:
it was very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he
carried iniquity further and actually went to chapel, then of
course, excellent as his meat was, Mr. Carey would be forced to
leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often stopped at the bank to
deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager, who was
choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin
man with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white,
and to Philip he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish
accounts, arranged the treats for the choir and the schools;
though there was no organ in the parish church, it was generally
considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led was the best
in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit from
the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at
the Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations.
But he had no hesitation in doing all manner of things without
more than a perfunctory consultation with the Vicar, and the
Vicar, though always ready to be saved trouble, much resented
the churchwarden's managing ways. He really seemed to look upon
himself as the most important person in the parish. Mr. Carey
constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care
he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs.
Carey advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and
it was not his fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar,
finding his comfort in the practice of a Christian virtue,
exercised forbearance; but he revenged himself by calling the
churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.

Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs.
Carey still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The
Conservative candidate had announced his intention of addressing
a meeting at Blackstable; and Josiah Graves, having arranged
that it should take place in the Mission Hall, went to Mr. Carey
and told him that he hoped he would say a few words. It appeared
that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the chair.
This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm
views upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was
ridiculous for a churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting
when the Vicar was there. He reminded Josiah Graves that parson
meant person, that is, the vicar was the person of the parish.
Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to recognise the
dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics, and in
his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had
enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were
Caesar's. To this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote
scripture to his purpose, himself had sole authority over the
Mission Hall, and if he were not asked to be chairman he would
refuse the use of it for a political meeting. Josiah Graves told
Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and for his part he
thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable place.
Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was
little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be
churchwarden in a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon
resigned all his offices, and that very evening sent to the
church for his cassock and surplice. His sister, Miss Graves,
who kept house for him, gave up her secretary-ship of the
Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel,
baby linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at
last master in his own house. But soon he found that he was
obliged to see to all sorts of things that he knew nothing
about; and Josiah Graves, after the first moment of irritation,
discovered that he had lost his chief interest in life. Mrs.
Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they
met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their
minds to put the matter right: they talked, one to her husband,
the other to her brother, from morning till night; and since
they were persuading these gentlemen to do what in their hearts
they wanted, after three weeks of anxiety a reconciliation was
effected. It was to both their interests, but they ascribed it
to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held at the
Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey
and Josiah Graves both made speeches.

When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she
generally went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister;
and while the ladies talked of parish matters, the curate or the
new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr. Wilson was the richest man in
Blackstable, he was thought to have at least five hundred a
year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in the
stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself
with the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows
were never opened except to air the room for a few minutes in
the morning, and it had a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to
have a mysterious connection with banking.

Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and
they continued their way. When the shopping was done they often
went down a side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in
which fishermen dwelt (and here and there a fisherman sat on his
doorstep mending his nets, and nets hung to dry upon the doors),
till they came to a small beach, shut in on each side by
warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood for a
few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who
knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip
searched for flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they
walked slowly back. They looked into the post office to get the
right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram the doctor's wife, who sat at
her window sewing, and so got home.

Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday
it consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one
of their own chickens. In the afternoon Philip did his lessons,
He was taught latin and mathematics by his uncle who knew
neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of French she was
ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany the
old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William
used to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known
twelve songs by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice
whenever she was asked. She often sang still when there was a
tea-party at the vicarage. There were few people whom the Careys
cared to ask there, and their parties consisted always of the
curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr. Wigram and his wife.
After tea Miss Graves played one or two of Mendelssohn's
_Songs without Words_, and Mrs. Carey sang _When the Swallows
Homeward Fly_, or _Trot, Trot, My Pony._

But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations
upset them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves
exhausted. They preferred to have tea by themselves, and after
tea they played backgammon. Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband
should win, because he did not like losing. They had cold supper
at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary Ann resented
getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to clear
away. Mrs. Carey seldom eat{sic} more than bread and butter,
with a little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice
of cold meat. Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell
for prayers, and then Philip went to bed. He rebelled against
being undressed by Mary Ann and after a while succeeded in
establishing his right to dress and undress himself. At nine
o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs. Carey
wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book.
She then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr.
Carey continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock
struck ten he got up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife
to bed.

When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on
which evening he should have his bath. It was never easy to get
plenty of hot water, since the kitchen boiler did not work, and
it was impossible for two persons to have a bath on the same
day. The only man who had a bathroom in Blackstable was Mr.
Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary Ann had her
bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to begin
the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,
because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little
tired after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers
on Thursday for the same reason. It looked as though Saturday
were naturally indicated for Philip, but Mary Ann said she
couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night: what with all the
cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't know
what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on
Saturday night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath
himself. Mrs. Carey was shy about bathing a boy, and of course
the Vicar had his sermon. But the Vicar insisted that Philip
should be clean and sweet for the lord's Day. Mary Ann said she
would rather go than be put upon--and after eighteen years she
didn't expect to have more work given her, and they might show
some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to
bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it.
Mary Ann said she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself
properly, and rather than he should go dirty--and not because he
was going into the presence of the Lord, but because she
couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly washed--she'd work
herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.


CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed
to say that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven
days a week.

The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying
abed for a poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as
Mary Ann knocked at the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs.
Carey longer to dress, and she got down to breakfast at nine, a
little breathless, only just before her husband. Mr. Carey's
boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers were longer
than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After breakfast
the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip
was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to
fetch a marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the
bread till it was thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small
squares. The amount was regulated by the weather. On a very bad
day few people came to church, and on a very fine one, though
many came, few stayed for communion. There were most when it was
dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not so fine
that people wanted to hurry away.

Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe,
which stood in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a
chamois leather. At ten the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into
his boots. Mrs. Carey took several minutes to put on her bonnet,
during which the Vicar, in a voluminous cloak, stood in the hall
with just such an expression on his face as would have become an
early Christian about to be led into the arena. It was
extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife could
not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in
black satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's
wife at any time, but on Sundays he was determined that she
should wear black; now and then, in conspiracy with Miss Graves,
she ventured a white feather or a pink rose in her bonnet, but
the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he said he would
not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed as a
woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the
carriage when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his
egg. They knew that he must have an egg for his voice, there
were two women in the house, and no one had the least regard for
his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary Ann, and Mary Ann answered
that she could not think of everything. She hurried away to
fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of sherry.
The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed
in the carriage, and they set off.

The fly came from _The Red Lion_ and had a peculiar smell of
stale straw. They drove with both windows closed so that the
Vicar should not catch cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch
to take the communion plate, and while the Vicar went to the
vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled themselves in the vicarage
pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the sixpenny bit she was
accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip threepence for
the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the service
began.

Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs.
Carey put a gentle hand on his arm and looked at him
reproachfully. He regained interest when the final hymn was sung
and Mr. graves passed round with the plate.

When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss graves' pew to
have a few words with her while they were waiting for the
gentlemen, and Philip went to the vestry. His uncle, the curate,
and Mr. graves were still in their surplices. Mr. Carey gave him
the remains of the consecrated bread and told him he might eat
it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it seemed
blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite
relieved him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It
consisted of pennies, sixpences and threepenny bits. There were
always two single shillings, one put in the plate by the Vicar
and the other by Mr. graves; and sometimes there was a florin.
Mr. graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was always a
stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But
Miss graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs.
Carey that the stranger came from London, was married and had
children. During the drive home Mrs. Carey passed the
information on, and the Vicar made up his mind to call on him
and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates Society.
Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey
remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in
church, and somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged.
When they reached the vicarage they all felt that they deserved
a substantial dinner.

When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr.
Carey lay down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks.

They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support
himself for evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary
Ann might, but she read the service through and the hymns. Mr.
Carey walked to church in the evening, and Philip limped along
by his side. The walk through the darkness along the country
road strangely impressed him, and the church with all its lights
in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very friendly.
At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew
used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk
more easily for the feeling of protection.

They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were
waiting for him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their
side Philip's, one the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen
and odd. He was dreadfully tired when he went up to bed, and he
did not resist when Mary Ann undressed him. She kissed him after
she tucked him up, and he began to love her.


CHAPTER VIII

PHILIP had led always the solitary life of an only child, and
his loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been
when his mother lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a
chubby little person of thirty-five, the daughter of a
fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at eighteen; it was her
first place and she had no intention of leaving it; but she held
a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her master
and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off
Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out.
Her stories of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the
narrow alleys round the harbour grew rich with the romance which
his young fancy lent them. One evening he asked whether he might
go home with her; but his aunt was afraid that he might catch
something, and his uncle said that evil communications corrupted
good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who were rough,
uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable in
the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he
took his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did
not like disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be
expected to be untidy she preferred that he should make a mess
in the kitchen. If he fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow
restless and say it was high time he went to school. Mrs. Carey
thought Philip very young for this, and her heart went out to
the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his affection
were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her
demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified.
Sometimes she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the
kitchen, but when she went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he
flushed darkly when Mary Ann explained the joke. Mrs. Carey
could not see anything amusing in what she heard, and she smiled
with constraint.

"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she
said, when she returned to her sewing.

"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking
into shape."

On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident
occurred. Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a
little snooze in the drawing-room, but he was in an irritable
mood and could not sleep. Josiah Graves that morning had
objected strongly to some candlesticks with which the Vicar had
adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in Tercanbury,
and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah graves said
they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the
Vicar. He had been at Oxford during the movement which ended in
the secession from the Established Church of Edward Manning, and
he felt a certain sympathy for the Church of Rome. He would
willingly have made the service more ornate than had been usual
in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his secret soul
he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the line
at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a
Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an
epithet, they were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was
Catholic in the best, the fullest, and the noblest sense of the
term. He was pleased to think that his shaven face gave him the
look of a priest, and in his youth he had possessed an ascetic
air which added to the impression. He often related that on one
of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays upon which
his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was
sitting in a church, the _cure_ had come up to him and invited
him to preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they
married, having decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed
clergy. But when at an election the Liberals had written on his
garden fence in large blue letters: This way to Rome, he had
been very angry, and threatened to prosecute the leaders of the
Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his mind now that
nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the
candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself
once or twice irritably.

Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the
handkerchief off his face, got up from the sofa on which he was
lying, and went into the dining-room. Philip was seated on the
table with all his bricks around him. He had built a monstrous
castle, and some defect in the foundation had just brought the
structure down in noisy ruin.

"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're
not allowed to play games on Sunday."

Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as
his habit was, flushed deeply.

"I always used to play at home," he answered.

"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked
thing as that."

Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not
wish it to be supposed that his mother had consented to it. He
hung his head and did not answer.

"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sundays what
d'you suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to
church tonight, and how can you face your Maker when you've been
breaking one of His laws in the afternoon?"

Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood
over him while Philip did so.

"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief
you're causing your poor mother in heaven."

Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive
disinclination to letting other people see his tears, and he
clenched his teeth to prevent the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey
sat down in his arm-chair and began to turn over the pages of a
book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage was set back from
the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one saw a
semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green
fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray
Philip felt infinitely unhappy.

Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa
descended the stairs.

"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't
sleep a wink."

This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his
own thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he
had only made a noise once, and there was no reason why his
uncle should not have slept before or after. When Mrs. Carey
asked for an explanation the Vicar narrated the facts.

"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished.

"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious
that the child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need
be.

Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter.
He did not know what power it was in him that prevented him from
making any expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he
was a little inclined to cry, but no word would issue from his
lips.

"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey.

Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip
surreptitiously now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored
him. When Philip saw his uncle go upstairs to get ready for
church he went into the hall and got his hat and coat, but when
the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:

"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think
you're in a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God."

Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation
that was placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood
silently watching his uncle put on his broad hat and his
voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual went to the door to see
him off. Then she turned to Philip.

"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday,
will you, and then your uncle will take you to church with him
in the evening."

She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.

"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll
sing the hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?"

Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If
he would not read the evening service with her she did not know
what to do with him.

"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?"
she asked helplessly.

Philip broke his silence at last.

"I want to be left alone," he said.

"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that
your uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?"

"I hate you. I wish you was dead."

Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave
her quite a start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her
husband's chair; and as she thought of her desire to love the
friendless, crippled boy and her eager wish that he should love
her--she was a barren woman and, even though it was clearly
God's will that she should be childless, she could scarcely bear
to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached so--the
tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her
cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her
handkerchief, and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly
Philip realised that she was crying because of what he had said,
and he was sorry. He went up to her silently and kissed her. It
was the first kiss he had ever given her without being asked.
And the poor lady, so small in her black satin, shrivelled up
and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little boy
on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her
heart would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness,
for she felt that the strangeness between them was gone. She
loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer.


CHAPTER IX

ON the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his
preparations to go into the drawing-room for his nap--all the
actions of his life were conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey
was about to go upstairs, Philip asked:

"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"

"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?"

"I can't sit still till tea-time."

Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and
he could not suggest that Philip should go into the garden."

I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for
the day."

He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the
harmonium, and turned the pages till he came to the place he
wanted.

"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when
I come in to tea you shall have the top of my egg."

Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they
had bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front
of him.

"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.

He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a
cheerful blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the
drawing-room. He loosened his collar, arranged the cushions, and
settled himself comfortably on the sofa. But thinking the
drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought him a rug from
the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his feet.
She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his
eyes, and since he had closed them already went out of the room
on tiptoe. The Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten
minutes he was asleep. He snored softly.

It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began
with the words: _O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that
he might destroy the works of the devil, and make us the sons of
God, and heirs of Eternal life_. Philip read it through. He
could make no sense of it. He began saying the words aloud to
himself, but many of them were unknown to him, and the
construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more
than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly
wandering: there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the
vicarage, and a long twig beat now and then against the
windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in the field beyond the
garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside his brain.
Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by
tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he
did not try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like
into his memory.

Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock
she was so wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she
would hear Philip his collect so that he should make no mistakes
when he said it to his uncle. His uncle then would be pleased;
he would see that the boy's heart was in the right place. But
when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about to go in,
she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a
little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the
front-door. She walked round the house till she came to the
dining-room window and then cautiously looked in. Philip was
still sitting on the chair she had put him in, but his head was
on the table buried in his arms, and he was sobbing desperately.
She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. Mrs. Carey was
frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the child
was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And
now she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of
showing his fillings: he hid himself to weep.

Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened
suddenly, she burst into the drawing-room.

"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his
heart would break."

Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his
legs.

"What's he got to cry about?"

"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy.
D'you think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known
what to do."

Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily
helpless.

"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn.
It's not more than ten lines."

"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at,
William? There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be
anything wrong in that."

"Very well, I don't mind."

Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's
only passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending
an hour or two in the second-hand shop; he always brought back
four or five musty volumes. He never read them, for he had long
lost the habit of reading, but he liked to turn the pages, look
at the illustrations if they were illustrated, and mend the
bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them he could stay at
home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon with
white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of
some battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with
steel engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which
described Palestine. She coughed elaborately at the door so that
Philip should have time to compose himself, she felt that he
would be humiliated if she came upon him in the midst of his
tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went in Philip
was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands
so that she might not see he had been crying.

"Do you know the collect yet?" she said.

He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not
trust his voice. She was oddly embarrassed.

"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.

"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some
picture books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and
we'll look at them together."

Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked
down so that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round
him.

"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was
born."

She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and
minarets. In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under
them were resting two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his
hand over the picture as if he wanted to feel the houses and the
loose habiliments of the nomads.

"Read what it says," he asked.

Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a
romantic narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties,
pompous maybe, but fragrant with the emotion with which the East
came to the generation that followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In
a moment or two Philip interrupted her.

"I want to see another picture."

When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the
cloth. Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the
illustrations. It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him
to put the book down for tea. He had forgotten his horrible
struggle to get the collect by heart; he had forgotten his
tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the book again.
Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with
her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders,
and this eagerness for the book which described places hallowed
by the presence of Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though
the boy's mind addressed itself naturally to holy things. But in
a day or two he asked for more books. Mr. Carey took him into
his study, showed him the shelf in which he kept illustrated
works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip took
it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began
to read the page before and the page after each engraving to
find out what it was about, and soon he lost all interest in his
toys.

Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and
perhaps because the first impression on his mind was made by an
Eastern town, he found his chief amusement in those which
described the Levant. His heart beat with excitement at the
pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but there was one, in a
book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his
imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It
was a Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed
with fantastic vastness; and the legend which he read told that
a boat was always moored at the entrance to tempt the unwary,
but no traveller venturing into the darkness had ever been Seen
again. And Philip wondered whether the boat went on for ever
through one pillared alley after another or came at last to some
strange mansion.

One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's
translation of _The Thousand Nights and a Night_. He was
captured first by the illustrations, and then he began to read,
to start with, the stories that dealt with magic, and then the
others; and those he liked he read again and again. He could
think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him. He had to
be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.
Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the
habit of reading: he did not know that thus he was providing
himself with a refuge from all the distress of life; he did not
know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world
which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter
disappointment. Presently he began to read other things. His
brain was precocious his uncle and aunt, seeing that he occupied
himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble
themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did
not know them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he
had bought at one time and another because they were cheap.
Haphazard among the sermons and homilies, the travels, the lives
of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories of the church, were
old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last discovered. He
chose them by their titles, and the first he read was _The
Lancashire Witches_, and then he read _The Admirable
Crichton_, and then many more. Whenever he started a book with
two solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate
ravine he knew he was safe.

The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made
him a hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a
weeping willow. And here for long hours he lay, hidden from
anyone who might come to the vicarage, reading, reading
passionately. Time passed and it was July; August came: on
Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the
collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds.
Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much
during this period; for they disliked strange faces, and they
looked upon the visitors from London with aversion. The house
opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman who had two
little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go
and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal.
She was afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys
from London. He was going to be a clergyman, and it was
necessary that he should be preserved from contamination. She
liked to see in him an infant Samuel.


CHAPTER X

THE Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School
at Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It
was united by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster
was an honorary Canon, and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon.
Boys were encouraged there to aspire to Holy Orders, and the
education was such as might prepare an honest lad to spend his
life in God's service. A preparatory school was attached to it,
and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr. Carey
took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end
of September. All day Philip had been excited and rather
frightened. He knew little of school life but what he had read
in the stories of _The Boy's Own Paper_. He had also read
_Eric_, or _Little by Little_.

When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick
with apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale
and silent. The high brick wall in front of the school gave it
the look of a prison. There was a little door in it, which
opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, untidy man came out and
fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They were shown
into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly
furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the
walls with a forbidding rigidity. They waited for the
headmaster.

"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while.

"You'll see for yourself."

There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster
did not come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.

"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said.

Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson
swept into the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man
of over six feet high, and broad, with enormous hands and a
great red beard; he talked loudly in a Jovial manner; but his
aggressive cheerfulness struck terror in Philip's heart. He
shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's small hand in
his.

"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he
shouted.

Philip reddened and found no word to answer.

"How old are you?"

"Nine," said Philip.

"You must say sir," said his uncle.

"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster
bellowed cheerily.

To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough
fingers. Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under
his touch.

"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll
like that, won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in
there. You won't feel so strange."

Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark
woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had
curiously thick lips and a small round nose. Her eyes were large
and black. There was a singular coldness in her appearance. She
seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. Her husband
introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly
push towards her.

"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey."

Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down,
not speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much
Philip knew and what books he had been working with. The Vicar
of Blackstable was a little embarrassed by Mr. Watson's
boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up.

"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now."

"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me.
He'll get on like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?"

Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into
a great bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the
forehead and went away.

"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you
the school-room."

He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip
hurriedly limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room
with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of
them were wooden forms.

"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll Just show you the
playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself."

Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large
play-ground with high brick walls on three sides of it. On the
fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast
lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of King's School. One
small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as
he walked.

"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?"

The small boy came forward and shook hands.

"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you
bully him."

The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them
with fear by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left
them.

"What's your name?"

"Carey."

"What's your father?"

"He's dead."

"Oh! Does your mother wash?"

"My mothers dead, too."

Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain
awkwardness, but Venning was not to be turned from his
facetiousness for so little.

"Well, did she wash?" he went on.

"Yes," said Philip indignantly.

"She was a washerwoman then?"

"No, she wasn't."

"Then she didn't wash."

The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his
dialectic. Then he caught sight of Philip's feet.

"What's the matter with your foot?"

Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it
behind the one which was whole.

"I've got a club-foot," he answered.

"How did you get it?"

"I've always had it."

"Let's have a look."

"No."

"Don't then."

The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on
Philip's shin, which Philip did not expect and thus could not
guard against. The pain was so great that it made him gasp, but
greater than the pain was the surprise. He did not know why
Venning kicked him. He had not the presence of mind to give him
a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and he had
read in _The Boy's Own Paper_ that it was a mean thing to hit
anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin
a third boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little
while he noticed that the pair were talking about him, and he
felt they were looking at his feet. He grew hot and
uncomfortable.

But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they
began to talk about their doings during the holidays, where they
had been, and what wonderful cricket they had played. A few new
boys appeared, and with these presently Philip found himself
talking. He was shy and nervous. He was anxious to make himself
pleasant, but he could not think of anything to say. He was
asked a great many questions and answered them all quite
willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.

"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot."

The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he
felt he had asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to
apologise and looked at Philip awkwardly.


CHAPTER XI

NEXT morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked
round his cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he
remembered where he was.

"Are you awake, Singer?"

The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and
there was a green curtain in front. In those days there was
little thought of ventilation, and the windows were closed
except when the dormitory was aired in the morning.

Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold
morning, and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his
uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to God if he said
them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed.
This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realise that
he was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of
his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for the
fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of
his washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which
with the bed and a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle.
The boys chatted gaily while they dressed. Philip was all ears.
Then another bell sounded, and they ran downstairs. They took
their seats on the forms on each side of the two long tables in
the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his wife and the
servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an
impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his
loud voice as though they were threats personally addressed to
each boy. Philip listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a
chapter from the Bible, and the servants trooped out. In a
moment the untidy youth brought in two large pots of tea and on
a second journey immense dishes of bread and butter.

Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor
butter on the bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys
scraping it off and followed their example. They all had potted
meats and such like, which they had brought in their play-boxes;
and some had 'extras,' eggs or bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made
a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey whether Philip was to have
these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think boys should be
spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered nothing
was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some
parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.

Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration
and made up his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for
them.

After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here
the day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the
local clergy, of the officers at the Depot, and of such
manufacturers or men of business as the old town possessed.
Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into school. This
consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two
under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a
smaller one, leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught
the first form. To attach the preparatory to the senior school
these three classes were known officially, on speech days and in
reports, as upper, middle, and lower second. Philip was put in
the last. The master, a red-faced man with a pleasant voice, was
called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the time
passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to
eleven and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.

The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new
boys were told to go into the middle, while the others stationed
themselves along opposite walls. They began to play _Pig in
the Middle_. The old boys ran from wall to wall while the new
boys tried to catch them: when one was seized and the mystic
words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he became a
prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were
still free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch
him, but his limp gave him no chance; and the runners, taking
their opportunity, made straight for the ground he covered. Then
one of them had the brilliant idea of imitating Philip's clumsy
run. Other boys saw it and began to laugh; then they all copied
the first; and they ran round Philip, limping grotesquely,
screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They lost
their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked
with helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he
fell, heavily as he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed
all the louder when he got up. A boy pushed him from behind, and
he would have fallen again if another had not caught him. The
game was forgotten in the entertainment of Philip's deformity.
One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck the rest
as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the
ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely
scared. He could not make out why they were laughing at him. His
heart beat so that he could hardly breathe, and he was more
frightened than he had ever been in his life. He stood still
stupidly while the boys ran round him, mimicking and laughing;
they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he did not move.
He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using all
his strength to prevent himself from crying.

Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school.
Philip's knee was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled.
For some minutes Mr. Rice could not control his form. They were
excited still by the strange novelty, and Philip saw one or two
of them furtively looking down at his feet. He tucked them under
the bench.

In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson
stopped Philip on the way out after dinner.

"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him.

Philip blushed self-consciously.

"No, sir."

"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far
as that, can't you? "

Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the
same.

"Yes, sir."

The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and
seeing he had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.

"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip.

"Why?"

There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a
feeling of shame came over Philip. He looked down without
answering. Others gave the reply.

"He's got a club-foot, sir."

"Oh, I see."

Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year
before; and he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg
the boy's pardon, but he was too shy to do so. He made his voice
gruff and loud.

"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with
you."

Some of them had already started and those that were left now
set off, in groups of two or three.

"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You
don't know the way, do you?"

Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.

"I can't go very fast, sir."

"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile.

Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man
who said a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.

But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the
boy who was called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his
head in Philip's.

"I say, let's look at your foot," he said.

"No," answered Philip.

He jumped into bed quickly.

"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason."

The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at
the words he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear
the bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried.

Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's
hands clenched on the blanket. Philip cried out.

"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?"

"I won't."

In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who
tormented him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized
his arm. He began to turn it.

"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm."

"Stop still then and put out your foot."

Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another
wrench. The pain was unendurable.

"All right. I'll do it," said Philip.

He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's
wrist. He looked curiously at the deformity.

"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason.

Another came in and looked too.

"Ugh," he said, in disgust.

"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?"

He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as
though it were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly
they heard Mr. Watson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw
the clothes back on Philip and dashed like rabbits into their
cubicles. Mr. Watson came into the dormitory. Raising himself on
tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore the green curtain,
and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. The little boys
were safely in bed. He put out the light and went out.

Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got
his teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible.
He was not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the
humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but
with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he
had put out his foot of his own accord.

And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his
childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no
particular reason he remembered that cold morning when Emma had
taken him out of bed and put him beside his mother. He had not
thought of it once since it happened, but now he seemed to feel
the warmth of his mother's body against his and her arms around
him. Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream, his
mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two
wretched days at school, and he would awake in the morning and
be back again at home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He
was too unhappy, it must be nothing but a dream, and his mother
was alive, and Emma would come up presently and go to bed. He
fell asleep.

But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell,
and the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his
cubicle.


CHAPTER XII

AS time went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was
accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable
corpulence. But meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He
never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp
more conspicuous, and he adopted a peculiar walk. He stood still
as much as he could, with his club-foot behind the other, so
that it should not attract notice, and he was constantly on the
look out for any reference to it. Because he could not join in
the games which other boys played, their life remained strange
to him; he only interested himself from the outside in their
doings; and it seemed to him that there was a barrier between
them and him. Sometimes they seemed to think that it was his
fault if he could not play football, and he was unable to make
them understand. He was left a good deal to himself. He had been
inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent. He
began to think of the difference between himself and others.

The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him,
and Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of
hard treatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran
through the school for a game called Nibs. It was a game for
two, played on a table or a form with steel pens. You had to
push your nib with the finger-nail so as to get the point of it
over your opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent this and to
get the point of his nib over the back of yours; when this
result was achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb,
pressed it hard on the two nibs, and if you were able then to
lift them without dropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon
nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more
skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr.
Watson made up his mind that it was a form of gambling, forbade
the game, and confiscated all the nibs in the boys' possession.
Philip had been very adroit, and it was with a heavy heart that
he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still,
and a few days later, on his way to the football field, he went
into a shop and bought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them
loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling them. Presently Singer
found out that he had them. Singer had given up his nibs too,
but he had kept back a very large one, called a Jumbo, which was
almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of
getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he was
at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous
disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was
aware that Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had not
played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill of
excitement. He lost two of his small nibs quickly, and Singer
was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the Jumbo
slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He
crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered.

"Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that idiotic
game?"

Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was
dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain
exultation. He had never been swished. Of course it would hurt,
but it was something to boast about afterwards.

"Come into my study."

The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer
whispered to Philip:

"We're in for it." Mr. Watson pointed to Singer.

"Bend over," he said.

Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after
the third he heard him cry out. Three more followed.

"That'll do. Get up."

Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip
stepped forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment.

"I'm not going to cane you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a
cripple. Go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again."

When they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had
learned in some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting
for them. They set upon Singer at once with eager questions.
Singer faced them, his face red with the pain and marks of tears
still on his cheeks. He pointed with his head at Philip, who was
standing a little behind him.

"He got off because he's a cripple," he said angrily.

Philip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him
with contempt.

"How many did you get?" one boy asked Singer.

But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt

"Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again," he said to Philip.
"It's jolly nice for you. You don't risk anything."

"I didn't ask you."

"Didn't you!"

He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was
always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the
ground.

"Cripple," said Singer.

For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and,
though Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so
small that it was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly
with him; he abased himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but
though Singer took the knife he was not placated. Once or twice,
driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger boy, but
Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and he was
always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It
was that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the
humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain
greater than he could bear. And what made it worse was that
there seemed no end to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven
and would not go to the upper school till he was thirteen.
Philip realised that he must live two years with a tormentor
from whom there was no escape. He was only happy while he was
working and when he got into bed. And often there recurred to
him then that queer feeling that his life with all its misery
was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning
in his own little bed in London.


CHAPTER XIII

TWO years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the
first form, within two or three places of the top, and after
Christmas when several boys would be leaving for the senior
school he would be head boy. He had already quite a collection
of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in gorgeous
bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position had
freed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows
forgave him his success because of his deformity.

"After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said,
"there's nothing he _can_ do but swat."

He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to
the loud voice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on
his shoulder Philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress.
He had the good memory which is more useful for scholastic
achievements than mental power, and he knew Mr. Watson expected
him to leave the preparatory school with a scholarship.

But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does
not realise that his body is more a part of himself than
surrounding objects, and will play with his toes without any
feeling that they belong to him more than the rattle by his
side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he
understands the fact of the body. And experiences of the same
kind are necessary for the individual to become conscious of
himself; but here there is the difference that, although
everyone becomes equally conscious of his body as a separate and
complete organism, everyone does not become equally conscious of
himself as a complete and separate personality. The feeling of
apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not
always developed to such a degree as to make the difference
between the individual and his fellows noticeable to the
individual. It is such as he, as little conscious of himself as
the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life, for they have the
best chance of happiness: their activities are shared by all,
and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are enjoyed
in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead
Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in
Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is because of them
that man has been called a social animal.

Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter
consciousness of himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had
excited. The circumstances of his case were so peculiar that he
could not apply to them the ready-made rules which acted well
enough in ordinary affairs, and he was forced to think for
himself. The many books he had read filled his mind with ideas
which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope to
his imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was
growing up within him, and obscurely he realised his
personality. But at times it gave him odd surprises; he did
things, he knew not why, and afterwards when he thought of them
found himself all at sea.

There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a
friendship had arisen, and one day, when they were playing
together in the school-room, Luard began to perform some trick
with an ebony pen-holder of Philip's.

"Don't play the giddy ox," said Philip. "You'll only break it."

"I shan't."

But no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the
pen-holder snapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay.

"Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry."

The tears rolled down Philip's cheeks, but he did not answer.

"I say, what's the matter?" said Luard, with surprise. "I'll get
you another one exactly the same."

"It's not about the pen-holder I care," said Philip, in a
trembling voice, "only it was given me by my mater, just before
she died."

"I say, I'm awfully sorry, Carey."

"It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault."

Philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them.
He tried to restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And
yet he could not tell why, for he knew quite well that he had
bought the pen-holder during his last holidays at Blackstable
for one and twopence. He did not know in the least what had made
him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite as unhappy as
though it had been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarage
and the religious tone of the school had made Philip's
conscience very sensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling
about him that the Tempter was ever on the watch to gain his
immortal soul; and though he was not more truthful than most
boys he never told a lie without suffering from remorse. When he
thought over this incident he was very much distressed, and made
up his mind that he must go to Luard and tell him that the story
was an invention. Though he dreaded humiliation more than
anything in the world, he hugged himself for two or three days
at the thought of the agonising joy of humiliating himself to
the Glory of God. But he never got any further. He satisfied his
conscience by the more comfortable method of expressing his
repentance only to the Almighty. But he could not understand why
he should have been so genuinely affected by the story he was
making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were
real tears. Then by some accident of association there occurred
to him that scene when Emma had told him of his mother's death,
and, though he could not speak for crying, he had insisted on
going in to say good-bye to the Misses Watkin so that they might
see his grief and pity him.


CHAPTER XIV

THEN a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad
language was no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of
small boys were looked upon with hostility; the bigger boys,
like the lords temporal of the Middle Ages, used the strength of
their arms to persuade those weaker than themselves to virtuous
courses.

Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very
devout. He heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible
League, and wrote to London for particulars. These consisted in
a form to be filled up with the applicant's name, age, and
school; a solemn declaration to be signed that he would read a
set portion of Holy Scripture every night for a year; and a
request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was demanded
partly to prove the earnestness of the applicant's desire to
become a member of the League, and partly to cover clerical
expenses. Philip duly sent the papers and the money, and in
return received a calendar worth about a penny, on which was set
down the appointed passage to be read each day, and a sheet of
paper on one side of which was a picture of the Good Shepherd
and a lamb, and on the other, decoratively framed in red lines,
a short prayer which had to be said before beginning to read.

Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to
have time for his task before the gas was put out. He read
industriously, as he read always, without criticism, stories of
cruelty, deceit, ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning.
Actions which would have excited his horror in the life about
him, in the reading passed through his mind without comment,
because they were committed under the direct inspiration of God.
The method of the League was to alternate a book of the Old
Testament with a book of the New, and one night Philip came
across these words of Jesus Christ:

_If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this
which is done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto
this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea;
it shall be done._

_And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing,
ye shall receive._

They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that
two or three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence
chose them for the text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted
to hear this it would have been impossible, for the boys of
King's School sit in the choir, and the pulpit stands at the
corner of the transept so that the preacher's back is almost
turned to them. The distance also is so great that it needs a
man with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to make
himself heard in the choir; and according to long usage the
Canons of Tercanbury are chosen for their learning rather than
for any qualities which might be of use in a cathedral church.
But the words of the text, perhaps because he had read them so
short a while before, came clearly enough to Philip's ears, and
they seemed on a sudden to have a personal application. He
thought about them through most of the sermon, and that night,
on getting into bed, he turned over the pages of the Gospel and
found once more the passage. Though he believed implicitly
everything he saw in print, he had learned already that in the
Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often
mysteriously meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at
school, so he kept the question he had in mind till the
Christmas holidays, and then one day he made an opportunity. It
was after supper and prayers were just finished. Mrs. Carey was
counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in as usual and
writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table and
pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible.

"I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean
that?"

He put his finger against it as though he had come across it
accidentally.

Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding _The
Blackstable Times_ in front of the fire. It had come in that
evening damp from the press, and the Vicar always aired it for
ten minutes before he began to read.

"What passage is that?" he asked.

"Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains."

"If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip," said Mrs. Carey
gently, taking up the plate-basket.

Philip looked at his uncle for an answer.

"It's a matter of faith."

"D'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move
mountains you could?"

"By the grace of God," said the Vicar.

"Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip," said Aunt Louisa.
"You're not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?"

Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle
and preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he
wanted. His little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on
his nightshirt. But he always felt that his prayers were more
pleasing to God when he said them under conditions of
discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet were an offering
to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees; buried his
face in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that He
would make his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside
the moving of mountains. He knew that God could do it if He
wished, and his own faith was complete. Next morning, finishing
his prayers with the same request, he fixed a date for the
miracle.

"Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will,
please make my foot all right on the night before I go back to
school."

He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated
it later in the dining-room during the short pause which the
Vicar always made after prayers, before he rose from his knees.
He said it again in the evening and again, shivering in his
nightshirt, before he got into bed. And he believed. For once he
looked forward with eagerness to the end of the holidays. He
laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle's astonishment
when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after breakfast
he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of
boots. At school they would be astounded.

"Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?"

"Oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it
were the most natural thing in the world.

He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw
himself running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At
the end of the Easter term there were the sports, and he would
be able to go in for the races; he rather fancied himself over
the hurdles. It would be splendid to be like everyone else, not
to be stared at curiously by new boys who did not know about his
deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need incredible
precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his
foot in the water.

He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed
him. He was confident in the word of God. And the night before
he was to go back to school he went up to bed tremulous with
excitement. There was snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had
allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her
bed-room; but in Philip's little room it was so cold that his
fingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his
collar. His teeth chattered. The idea came to him that he must
do something more than usual to attract the attention of God,
and he turned back the rug which was in front of his bed so that
he could kneel on the bare boards; and then it struck him that
his nightshirt was a softness that might displease his Maker, so
he took it off and said his prayers naked. When he got into bed
he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when
he did, it was so soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when
she brought in his hot water next morning. She talked to him
while she drew the curtains, but he did not answer; he had
remembered at once that this was the morning for the miracle.
His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first instinct
was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now,
but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that
his foot was well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the
toes of his right foot he just touched his left. Then he passed
his hand over it.

He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the
dining-room for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast.

"You're very quiet this morning, Philip," said Aunt Louisa
presently.

"He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school
to-morrow," said the Vicar.

When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his
uncle, with something that had nothing to do with the matter in
hand. He called it a bad habit of wool-gathering.

"Supposing you'd asked God to do something," said Philip, "and
really believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain,
I mean, and you had faith, and it didn't happen, what would it
mean?"

"What a funny boy you are!" said Aunt Louisa. "You asked about
moving mountains two or three weeks ago."

"It would just mean that you hadn't got faith," answered Uncle
William.

Philip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it
was because he did not really believe. And yet he did not see
how he could believe more than he did. But perhaps he had not
given God enough time. He had only asked Him for nineteen days.
In a day or two he began his prayer again, and this time he
fixed upon Easter. That was the day of His Son's glorious
resurrection, and God in His happiness might be mercifully
inclined. But now Philip added other means of attaining his
desire: he began to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled
horse, and he looked out for shooting stars; during exeat they
had a chicken at the vicarage, and he broke the lucky bone with
Aunt Louisa and wished again, each time that his foot might be
made whole. He was appealing unconsciously to gods older to his
race than the God of Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty with
his prayer, at odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to
him, in identical words always, for it seemed to him important
to make his request in the same terms. But presently the feeling
came to him that this time also his faith would not be great
enough. He could not resist the doubt that assailed him. He made
his own experience into a general rule.

"I suppose no one ever has faith enough," he said.

It was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you
could catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he
had taken a little bag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he
could never get near enough to put the salt on a bird's tail.
Before Easter he had given up the struggle. He felt a dull
resentment against his uncle for taking him in. The text which
spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of those that said
one thing and meant another. He thought his uncle had been
playing a practical joke on him.


CHAPTER XV

THE King's School at Tercanbury, to which Philip went when he
was thirteen, prided itself on its antiquity. It traced its
origin to an abbey school, founded before the Conquest, where
the rudiments of learning were taught by Augustine monks; and,
like many another establishment of this sort, on the destruction
of the monasteries it had been reorganised by the officers of
King Henry VIII and thus acquired its name. Since then, pursuing
its modest course, it had given to the sons of the local gentry
and of the professional people of Kent an education sufficient
to their needs. One or two men of letters, beginning with a
poet, than whom only Shakespeare had a more splendid genius, and
ending with a writer of prose whose view of life has affected
profoundly the generation of which Philip was a member, had gone
forth from its gates to achieve fame; it had produced one or two
eminent lawyers, but eminent lawyers are common, and one or two
soldiers of distinction; but during the three centuries since
its separation from the monastic order it had trained especially
men of the church, bishops, deans, canons, and above all country
clergymen: there were boys in the school whose fathers,
grandfathers, great-grandfathers, had been educated there and
had all been rectors of parishes in the diocese of Tercanbury;
and they came to it with their minds made up already to be
ordained. But there were signs notwithstanding that even there
changes were coming; for a few, repeating what they had heard at
home, said that the Church was no longer what it used to be. It
wasn't so much the money; but the class of people who went in
for it weren't the same; and two or three boys knew curates
whose fathers were tradesmen: they'd rather go out to the
Colonies (in those days the Colonies were still the last hope of
those who could get nothing to do in England) than be a curate
under some chap who wasn't a gentleman. At King's School, as at
Blackstable Vicarage, a tradesman was anyone who was not lucky
enough to own land (and here a fine distinction was made between
the gentleman farmer and the landowner), or did not follow one
of the four professions to which it was possible for a gentleman
to belong. Among the day-boys, of whom there were about a
hundred and fifty, sons of the local gentry and of the men
stationed at the depot, those whose fathers were engaged in
business were made to feel the degradation of their state.

The masters had no patience with modern ideas of education,
which they read of sometimes in _The Times_ or _The
Guardian_, and hoped fervently that King's School would remain
true to its old traditions. The dead languages were taught with
such thoroughness that an old boy seldom thought of Homer or
Virgil in after life without a qualm of boredom; and though in
the common room at dinner one or two bolder spirits suggested
that mathematics were of increasing importance, the general
feeling was that they were a less noble study than the classics.
Neither German nor chemistry was taught, and French only by the
form-masters; they could keep order better than a foreigner,
and, since they knew the grammar as well as any Frenchman, it
seemed unimportant that none of them could have got a cup of
coffee in the restaurant at Boulogne unless the waiter had known
a little English. Geography was taught chiefly by making boys
draw maps, and this was a favourite occupation, especially when
the country dealt with was mountainous: it was possible to waste
a great deal of time in drawing the Andes or the Apennines. The
masters, graduates of Oxford or Cambridge, were ordained and
unmarried; if by chance they wished to marry they could only do
so by accepting one of the smaller livings at the disposal of
the Chapter; but for many years none of them had cared to leave
the refined society of Tercanbury, which owing to the cavalry
depot had a martial as well as an ecclesiastical tone, for the
monotony of life in a country rectory; and they were now all men
of middle age.

The headmaster, on the other hand, was obliged to be married and
he conducted the school till age began to tell upon him. When he
retired he was rewarded with a much better living than any of
the under-masters could hope for, and an honorary Canonry.

But a year before Philip entered the school a great change had
come over it. It had been obvious for some time that Dr.
Fleming, who had been headmaster for the quarter of a century,
was become too deaf to continue his work to the greater glory of
God; and when one of the livings on the outskirts of the city
fell vacant, with a stipend of six hundred a year, the Chapter
offered it to him in such a manner as to imply that they thought
it high time for him to retire. He could nurse his ailments
comfortably on such an income. Two or three curates who had
hoped for preferment told their wives it was scandalous to give
a parish that needed a young, strong, and energetic man to an
old fellow who knew nothing of parochial work, and had feathered
his nest already; but the mutterings of the unbeneficed clergy
do not reach the ears of a cathedral Chapter. And as for the
parishioners they had nothing to say in the matter, and
therefore nobody asked for their opinion. The Wesleyans and the
Baptists both had chapels in the village.

When Dr. Fleming was thus disposed of it became necessary to
find a successor. It was contrary to the traditions of the
school that one of the lower-masters should be chosen. The
commonroom was unanimous in desiring the election of Mr. Watson,
headmaster of the preparatory school; he could hardly be
described as already a master of King's School, they had all
known him for twenty years, and there was no danger that he
would make a nuisance of himself. But the Chapter sprang a
surprise on them. It chose a man called Perkins. At first nobody
knew who Perkins was, and the name favourably impressed no one;
but before the shock of it had passed away, it was realised that
Perkins was the son of Perkins the linendraper. Dr. Fleming
informed the masters just before dinner, and his manner showed
his consternation. Such of them as were dining in, ate their
meal almost in silence, and no reference was made to the matter
till the servants had left the room. Then they set to. The names
of those present on this occasion are unimportant, but they had
been known to generations of school-boys as Sighs, Tar, Winks,
Squirts, and Pat.

They all knew Tom Perkins. The first thing about him was that he
was not a gentleman. They remembered him quite well. He was a
small, dark boy, with untidy black hair and large eyes. He
looked like a gipsy. He had come to the school as a day-boy,
with the best scholarship on their endowment, so that his
education had cost him nothing. Of course he was brilliant. At
every Speech-Day he was loaded with prizes. He was their
show-boy, and they remembered now bitterly their fear that he
would try to get some scholarship at one of the larger public
schools and so pass out of their hands. Dr. Fleming had gone to
the linendraper his father--they all remembered the shop,
Perkins and Cooper, in St. Catherine's Street--and said he hoped
Tom would remain with them till he went to Oxford. The school
was Perkins and Cooper's best customer, and Mr. Perkins was only
too glad to give the required assurance. Tom Perkins continued
to triumph, he was the finest classical scholar that Dr. Fleming
remembered, and on leaving the school took with him the most
valuable scholarship they had to offer. He got another at
Magdalen and settled down to a brilliant career at the
University. The school magazine recorded the distinctions he
achieved year after year, and when he got his double first Dr.
Fleming himself wrote a few words of eulogy on the front page.
It was with greater satisfaction that they welcomed his success,
since Perkins and Cooper had fallen upon evil days: Cooper drank
like a fish, and just before Tom Perkins took his degree the
linendrapers filed their petition in bankruptcy.

In due course Tom Perkins took Holy Orders and entered upon the
profession for which he was so admirably suited. He had been an
assistant master at Wellington and then at Rugby.

But there was quite a difference between welcoming his success
at other schools and serving under his leadership in their own.
Tar had frequently given him lines, and Squirts had boxed his
ears. They could not imagine how the Chapter had made such a
mistake. No one could be expected to forget that he was the son
of a bankrupt linendraper, and the alcoholism of Cooper seemed
to increase the disgrace. It was understood that the Dean had
supported his candidature with zeal, so the Dean would probably
ask him to dinner; but would the pleasant little dinners in the
precincts ever be the same when Tom Perkins sat at the table?
And what about the depot? He really could not expect officers
and gentlemen to receive him as one of themselves. It would do
the school incalculable harm. Parents would be dissatisfied, and
no one could be surprised if there were wholesale withdrawals.
And then the indignity of calling him Mr. Perkins! The masters
thought by way of protest of sending in their resignations in a
body, but the uneasy fear that they would be accepted with
equanimity restrained them.

"The only thing is to prepare ourselves for changes," said
Sighs, who had conducted the fifth form for five and twenty
years with unparalleled incompetence.

And when they saw him they were not reassured. Dr. Fleming
invited them to meet him at luncheon. He was now a man of
thirty-two, tall and lean, but with the same wild and unkempt
look they remembered on him as a boy. His clothes, ill-made and
shabby, were put on untidily. His hair was as black and as long
as ever, and he had plainly never learned to brush it; it fell
over his forehead with every gesture, and he had a quick
movement of the hand with which he pushed it back from his eyes.
He had a black moustache and a beard which came high up on his
face almost to the cheek-bones, He talked to the masters quite
easily, as though he had parted from them a week or two be-
fore; he was evidently delighted to see them. He seemed
unconscious of the strangeness of the position and appeared not
to notice any oddness in being addressed as Mr. Perkins.

When he bade them good-bye, one of the masters, for something to
say, remarked that he was allowing himself plenty of time to
catch his train.

"I want to go round and have a look at the shop," he answered
cheerfully.

There was a distinct embarrassment. They wondered that he could
be so tactless, and to make it worse Dr. Fleming had not heard
what he said. His wife shouted it in his ear.

"He wants to go round and look at his father's old shop."

Only Tom Perkins was unconscious of the humiliation which the
whole party felt. He turned to Mrs. Fleming.

"Who's got it now, d'you know?"

She could hardly answer. She was very angry.

"It's still a linendraper's," she said bitterly. "Grove is the
name. We don't deal there any more."

"I wonder if he'd let me go over the house."

"I expect he would if you explain who you are."

It was not till the end of dinner that evening that any
reference was made in the common-room to the subject that was in
all their minds. Then it was Sighs who asked:

"Well, what did you think of our new head?" They thought of the
conversation at luncheon. It was hardly a conversation; it was
a monologue. Perkins had talked incessantly. He talked very
quickly, with a flow of easy words and in a deep, resonant
voice. He had a short, odd little laugh which showed his white
teeth. They had followed him with difficulty, for his mind
darted from subject to subject with a connection they did not
always catch. He talked of pedagogics, and this was natural
enough; but he had much to say of modern theories in Germany
which they had never heard of and received with misgiving. He
talked of the classics, but he had been to Greece, and he
discoursed of archaeology; he had once spent a winter digging;
they could not see how that helped a man to teach boys to pass
examinations, He talked of politics. It sounded odd to them to
hear him compare Lord Beaconsfield with Alcibiades. He talked of
Mr. Gladstone and Home Rule. They realised that he was a
Liberal. Their hearts sank. He talked of German philosophy and
of French fiction. They could not think a man profound whose
interests were so diverse.

It was Winks who summed up the general impression and put it
into a form they all felt conclusively damning. Winks was the
master of the upper third, a weak-kneed man with drooping
eye-lids, He was too tall for his strength, and his movements
were slow and languid. He gave an impression of lassitude, and
his nickname was eminently appropriate.

"He's very enthusiastic," said Winks.

Enthusiasm was ill-bred. Enthusiasm was ungentlemanly. They
thought of the Salvation Army with its braying trumpets and its
drums. Enthusiasm meant change. They had goose-flesh when they
thought of all the pleasant old habits which stood in imminent
danger. They hardly dared to look forward to the future.

"He looks more of a gipsy than ever," said one, after a pause.

"I wonder if the Dean and Chapter knew that he was a Radical
when they elected him," another observed bitterly.

But conversation halted. They were too much disturbed for words.

When Tar and Sighs were walking together to the Chapter House on
Speech-Day a week later, Tar, who had a bitter tongue, remarked
to his colleague:

"Well, we've seen a good many Speech-Days here, haven't we? I
wonder if we shall see another."

Sighs was more melancholy even than usual.

"If anything worth having comes along in the way of a living I
don't mind when I retire."


CHAPTER XVI

A YEAR passed, and when Philip came to the school the old
masters were all in their places; but a good many changes had
taken place notwithstanding their stubborn resistance, none the
less formidable because it was concealed under an apparent
desire to fall in with the new head's ideas. Though the
form-masters still taught French to the lower school, another
master had come, with a degree of doctor of philology from the
University of Heidelberg and a record of three years spent in a
French lycee, to teach French to the upper forms and German to
anyone who cared to take it up instead of Greek. Another master
was engaged to teach mathematics more systematically than had
been found necessary hitherto. Neither of these was ordained.
This was a real revolution, and when the pair arrived the older
masters received them with distrust. A laboratory had been
fitted up, army classes were instituted; they all said the
character of the school was changing. And heaven only knew what
further projects Mr. Perkins turned in that untidy head of his.
The school was small as public schools go, there were not more
than two hundred boarders; and it was difficult for it to grow
larger, for it was huddled up against the Cathedral; the
precincts, with the exception of a house in which some of the
masters lodged, were occupied by the cathedral clergy; and there
was no more room for building. But Mr. Perkins devised an
elaborate scheme by which he might obtain sufficient space to
make the school double its present size. He wanted to attract
boys from London. He thought it would be good for them to be
thrown in contact with the Kentish lads, and it would sharpen
the country wits of these.

"It's against all our traditions," said Sighs, when Mr. Perkins
made the suggestion to him. "We've rather gone out of our way to
avoid the contamination of boys from London."

"Oh, what nonsense!" said Mr. Perkins.

No one had ever told the form-master before that he talked
nonsense, and he was meditating an acid reply, in which perhaps
he might insert a veiled reference to hosiery, when Mr. Perkins
in his impetuous way attacked him outrageously.

"That house in the precincts--if you'd only marry I'd get the
Chapter to put another couple of stories on, and we'd make
dormitories and studies, and your wife could help you."

The elderly clergyman gasped. Why should he marry? He was
fifty-seven, a man couldn't marry at fifty-seven. He couldn't
start looking after a house at his time of life. He didn't want
to marry. If the choice lay between that and the country living
he would much sooner resign. All he wanted now was peace and
quietness.

"I'm not thinking of marrying," he said.

Mr. Perkins looked at him with his dark, bright eyes, and if
there was a twinkle in them poor Sighs never saw it.

"What a pity! Couldn't you marry to oblige me? It would help me
a great deal with the Dean and Chapter when I suggest rebuilding
your house."

But Mr. Perkins' most unpopular innovation was his system of
taking occasionally another man's form. He asked it as a favour,
but after all it was a favour which could not be refused, and as
Tar, otherwise Mr. Turner, said, it was undignified for all
parties. He gave no warning, but after morning prayers would say
to one of the masters:

"I wonder if you'd mind taking the Sixth today at eleven. We'll
change over, shall we?"

They did not know whether this was usual at other schools, but
certainly it had never been done at Tercanbury. The results were
curious. Mr. Tumer, who was the first victim, broke the news to
his form that the headmaster would take them for Latin that day,
and on the pretence that they might like to ask him a question
or two so that they should not make perfect fools of themselves,
spent the last quarter of an hour of the history lesson in
construing for them the passage of Livy which had been set for
the day; but when he rejoined his class and looked at the paper
on which Mr. Perkins had written the marks, a surprise awaited
him; for the two boys at the top of the form seemed to have done
very ill, while others who had never distinguished themselves
before were given full marks. When he asked Eldridge, his
cleverest boy, what was the meaning of this the answer came
sullenly:

"Mr. Perkins never gave us any construing to do. He asked me
what I knew about General Gordon."

Mr. Turner looked at him in astonishment. The boys evidently
felt they had been hardly used, and he could not help agreeing
with their silent dissatisfaction. He could not see either what
General Gordon had to do with Livy. He hazarded an inquiry
afterwards.

"Eldridge was dreadfully put out because you asked him what he
knew about General Gordon," he said to the headmaster, with an
attempt at a chuckle.

Mr. Perkins laughed.

"I saw they'd got to the agrarian laws of Caius Gracchus, and I
wondered if they knew anything about the agrarian troubles in
Ireland. But all they knew about Ireland was that Dublin was on
the Liffey. So I wondered if they'd ever heard of General
Gordon."

Then the horrid fact was disclosed that the new head had a mania
for general information. He had doubts about the utility of
examinations on subjects which had been crammed for the
occasion. He wanted common sense.

Sighs grew more worried every month; he could not get the
thought out of his head that Mr. Perkins would ask him to fix a
day for his marriage; and he hated the attitude the head adopted
towards classical literature. There was no doubt that he was a
fine scholar, and he was engaged on a work which was quite in
the right tradition: he was writing a treatise on the trees in
Latin literature; but he talked of it flippantly, as though it
were a pastime of no great importance, like billiards, which
engaged his leisure but was not to be considered with
seriousness. And Squirts, the master of the Middle Third, grew
more ill-tempered every day.

It was in his form that Philip was put on entering the school.
The Rev. B. B. Gordon was a man by nature ill-suited to be a
schoolmaster: he was impatient and choleric. With no one to call
him to account, with only small boys to face him, he had long
lost all power of self-control. He began his work in a rage and
ended it in a passion. He was a man of middle height and of a
corpulent figure; he had sandy hair, worn very short and now
growing gray, and a small bristly moustache. His large face,
with indistinct features and small blue eyes, was naturally red,
but during his frequent attacks of anger it grew dark and
purple. His nails were bitten to the quick, for while some
trembling boy was construing he would sit at his desk shaking
with the fury that consumed him, and gnaw his fingers. Stories,
perhaps exaggerated, were told of his violence, and two years
before there had been some excitement in the school when it was
heard that one father was threatening a prosecution: he had
boxed the ears of a boy named Walters with a book so violently
that his hearing was affected and the boy had to be taken away
from the school. The boy's father lived in Tercanbury, and there
had been much indignation in the city, the local paper had
referred to the matter; but Mr. Walters was only a brewer, so
the sympathy was divided. The rest of the boys, for reasons best
known to themselves, though they loathed the master, took his
side in the affair, and, to show their indignation that the
school's business had been dealt with outside, made things as
uncomfortable as they could for Walters' younger brother, who
still remained. But Mr. Gordon had only escaped the country
living by the skin of his teeth, and he had never hit a boy
since. The right the masters possessed to cane boys on the hand
was taken away from them, and Squirts could no longer emphasize
his anger by beating his desk with the cane. He never did more
now than take a boy by the shoulders and shake him. He still
made a naughty or refractory lad stand with one arm stretched
out for anything from ten minutes to half an hour, and he was as
violent as before with his tongue.

No master could have been more unfitted to teach things to so
shy a boy as Philip. He had come to the school with fewer
terrors than he had when first he went to Mr. Watson's. He knew
a good many boys who had been with him at the preparatory
school. He felt more grownup, and instinctively realised that
among the larger numbers his deformity would be less noticeable.
But from the first day Mr. Gordon struck terror in his heart;
and the master, quick to discern the boys who were frightened of
him, seemed on that account to take a peculiar dislike to him.
Philip had enjoyed his work, but now he began to look upon the
hours passed in school with horror. Rather than risk an answer
which might be wrong and excite a storm of abuse from the
master, he would sit stupidly silent, and when it came towards
his turn to stand up and construe he grew sick and white with
apprehension. His happy moments were those when Mr. Perkins took
the form. He was able to gratify the passion for general
knowledge which beset the headmaster; he had read all sorts of
strange books beyond his years, and often Mr. Perkins, when a
question was going round the room, would stop at Philip with a
smile that filled the boy with rapture, and say:

"Now, Carey, you tell them."

The good marks he got on these occasions increased Mr. Gordon's
indignation. One day it came to Philip's turn to translate, and
the master sat there glaring at him and furiously biting his
thumb. He was in a ferocious mood. Philip began to speak in a
low voice.

"Don't mumble," shouted the master.

Something seemed to stick in Philip's throat.

"Go on. Go on. Go on."

Each time the words were screamed more loudly. The effect was to
drive all he knew out of Philip's head, and he looked at the
printed page vacantly. Mr. Gordon began to breathe heavily.

"If you don't know why don't you say so? Do you know it or not?
Did you hear all this construed last time or not? Why don't you
speak? Speak, you blockhead, speak!"

The master seized the arms of his chair and grasped them as
though to prevent himself from falling upon Philip. They knew
that in past days he often used to seize boys by the throat till
they almost choked. The veins in his forehead stood out and his
face grew dark and threatening. He was a man insane.

Philip had known the passage perfectly the day before, but now
he could remember nothing.

"I don't know it," he gasped.

"Why don't you know it? Let's take the words one by one. We'll
soon see if you don't know it."

Philip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his
head bent down on the book. The master's breathing grew almost
stertorous{sic}.

"The headmaster says you're clever. I don't know how he sees it.
General information." He laughed savagely. "I don't know what
they put you in his form for "Blockhead."

He was pleased with the word, and he repeated it at the top of
his voice.

"Blockhead! Blockhead! Club-footed blockhead!"

That relieved him a little. He saw Philip redden suddenly. He
told him to fetch the Black Book. Philip put down his Caesar and
went silently out. The Black Book was a sombre volume in which
the names of boys were written with their misdeeds, and when a
name was down three times it meant a caning. Philip went to the
headmaster's house and knocked at his study-door. Mr. Perkins
was seated at his table.

"May I have the Black Book, please, sir."

"There it is," answered Mr. Perkins, indicating its place by a
nod of his head. "What have you been doing that you shouldn't?"

"I don't know, sir."

Mr. Perkins gave him a quick look, but without answering went on
with his work. Philip took the book and went out. When the hour
was up, a few minutes later, he brought it back.

"Let me have a look at it," said the headmaster. "I see Mr.
Gordon has black-booked you for 'gross impertinence.' What was
it?"

"I don't know, sir. Mr. Gordon said I was a club-footed
blockhead."

Mr. Perkins looked at him again. He wondered whether there was
sarcasm behind the boy's reply, but he was still much too
shaken. His face was white and his eyes had a look of terrified
distress. Mr. Perkins got up and put the book down. As he did so
he took up some photographs.

"A friend of mine sent me some pictures of Athens this morning,"
he said casually. "Look here, there's the Akropolis."

He began explaining to Philip what he saw. The ruin grew vivid
with his words. He showed him the theatre of Dionysus and
explained in what order the people sat, and how beyond they
could see the blue Aegean. And then suddenly he said:

"I remember Mr. Gordon used to call me a gipsy counter-jumper
when I was in his form."

And before Philip, his mind fixed on the photographs, had time
to gather the meaning of the remark, Mr. Perkins was showing him
a picture of Salamis, and with his finger, a finger of which the
nail had a little black edge to it, was pointing out how the
Greek ships were placed and how the Persian.


CHAPTER XVII

PHILIP passed the next two years with comfortable monotony. He
was not bullied more than other boys of his size; and his
deformity, withdrawing him from games, acquired for him an
insignificance for which he was grateful. He was not popular,
and he was very lonely. He spent a couple of terms with Winks in
the Upper Third. Winks, with his weary manner and his drooping
eyelids, looked infinitely bored. He did his duty, but he did it
with an abstracted mind. He was kind, gentle, and foolish. He
had a great belief in the honour of boys; he felt that the first
thing to make them truthful was not to let it enter your head
for a moment that it was possible for them to lie. "Ask much,"
he quoted, "and much shall be given to you." Life was easy in
the Upper Third. You knew exactly what lines would come to your
turn to construe, and with the crib that passed from hand to
hand you could find out all you wanted in two minutes; you could
hold a Latin Grammar open on your knees while questions were
passing round; and Winks never noticed anything odd in the fact
that the same incredible mistake was to be found in a dozen
different exercises. He had no great faith in examinations, for
he noticed that boys never did so well in them as in form: it
was disappointing, but not significant. In due course they were
moved up, having learned little but a cheerful effrontery in the
distortion of truth, which was possibly of greater service to
them in after life than an ability to read Latin at sight.

Then they fell into the hands of Tar. His name was Turner; he
was the most vivacious of the old masters, a short man with an
immense belly, a black beard turning now to gray, and a swarthy
skin. In his clerical dress there was indeed something in him to
suggest the tar-barrel; and though on principle he gave five
hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard his
nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made
little jokes about it. He was the most worldly of the masters;
he dined out more frequently than any of the others, and the
society he kept was not so exclusively clerical. The boys looked
upon him as rather a dog. He left off his clerical attire during
the holidays and had been seen in Switzerland in gay tweeds. He
liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner, and having once been
seen at the Cafe Royal with a lady who was very probably a near
relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of
schoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of
which pointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity.

Mr. Turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into
shape after they had been in the Upper Third; and now and then
he let fall a sly hint, which showed that he knew perfectly what
went on in his colleague's form. He took it good-humouredly. He
looked upon boys as young ruffians who were more apt to be
truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out, whose
sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to
dealings with masters, and who were least likely to be
troublesome when they learned that it did not pay. He was proud
of his form and as eager at fifty-five that it should do better
in examinations than any of the others as he had been when he
first came to the school. He had the choler of the obese, easily
roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered that
there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he
constantly assailed them. He had no patience with fools, but was
willing to take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of
concealing intelligence behind their wilfulness. He was fond of
inviting them to tea; and, though vowing they never got a look
in with him at the cakes and muffins, for it was the fashion to
believe that his corpulence pointed to a voracious appetite, and
his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they accepted his
invitations with real pleasure.

Philip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that
there were only studies for boys in the upper school, and till
then he had lived in the great hall in which they all ate and in
which the lower forms did preparation in a promiscuity which was
vaguely distasteful to him. Now and then it made him restless to
be with people and he wanted urgently to be alone. He set out
for solitary walks into the country. There was a little stream,
with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green
fields, and it made him happy, he knew not why, to wander along
its banks. When he was tired he lay face-downward on the grass
and watched the eager scurrying of minnows and of tadpoles. It
gave him a peculiar satisfaction to saunter round the precincts.
On the green in the middle they practised at nets in the summer,
but during the rest of the year it was quiet: boys used to
wander round sometimes arm in arm, or a studious fellow with
abstracted gaze walked slowly, repeating to himself something he
had to learn by heart. There was a colony of rooks in the great
elms, and they filled the air with melancholy cries. Along one
side lay the Cathedral with its great central tower, and Philip,
who knew as yet nothing of beauty, felt when he looked at it a
troubling delight which he could not understand. When he had a
study (it was a little square room looking on a slum, and four
boys shared it), he bought a photograph of that view of the
Cathedral, and pinned it up over his desk. And he found himself
taking a new interest in what he saw from the window of the
Fourth Form room. It looked on to old lawns, carefully tended,
and fine trees with foliage dense and rich. It gave him an odd
feeling in his heart, and he did not know if it was pain or
pleasure. It was the first dawn of the aesthetic emotion. It
accompanied other changes. His voice broke. It was no longer
quite under his control, and queer sounds issued from his
throat.

Then he began to go to the classes which were held in the
headmaster's study, immediately after tea, to prepare boys for
confirmation. Philip's piety had not stood the test of time, and
he had long since given up his nightly reading of the Bible; but
now, under the influence of Mr. Perkins, with this new condition
of the body which made him so restless, his old feelings
revived, and he reproached himself bitterly for his backsliding.
The fires of Hell burned fiercely before his mind's eye. If he
had died during that time when he was little better than an
infidel he would have been lost; he believed implicitly in pain
everlasting, he believed in it much more than in eternal
happiness; and he shuddered at the dangers he had run.

Since the day on which Mr. Perkins had spoken kindly to him,
when he was smarting under the particular form of abuse which he
could least bear, Philip had conceived for his headmaster a
dog-like adoration. He racked his brains vainly for some way to
please him. He treasured the smallest word of commendation which
by chance fell from his lips. And when he came to the quiet
little meetings in his house he was prepared to surrender
himself entirely. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Perkins' shining
eyes, and sat with mouth half open, his head a little thrown
forward so as to miss no word. The ordinariness of the
surroundings made the matters they dealt with extraordinarily
moving. And often the master, seized himself by the wonder of
his subject, would push back the book in front of him, and with
his hands clasped together over his heart, as though to still
the beating, would talk of the mysteries of their religion.
Sometimes Philip did not understand, but he did not want to
understand, he felt vaguely that it was enough to feel. It
seemed to him then that the headmaster, with his black,
straggling hair and his pale face, was like those prophets of
Israel who feared not to take kings to task; and when he thought
of the Redeemer he saw Him only with the same dark eyes and
those wan cheeks.

Mr. Perkins took this part of his work with great seriousness.
There was never here any of that flashing humour which made the
other masters suspect him of flippancy. Finding time for
everything in his busy day, he was able at certain intervals to
take separately for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes the
boys whom he was preparing for confirmation. He wanted to make
them feel that this was the first consciously serious step in
their lives; he tried to grope into the depths of their souls;
he wanted to instil in them his own vehement devotion. In
Philip, notwithstanding his shyness, he felt the possibility of
a passion equal to his own. The boy's temperament seemed to him
essentially religious. One day he broke off suddenly from the
subject on which he had been talking.

"Have you thought at all what you're going to be when you grow
up?" he asked.

"My uncle wants me to be ordained," said Philip.

"And you?"

Philip looked away. He was ashamed to answer that he felt
himself unworthy.

"I don't know any life that's so full of happiness as ours. I
wish I could make you feel what a wonderful privilege it is. One
can serve God in every walk, but we stand nearer to Him. I don't
want to influence you, but if you made up your mind--oh, at
once--you couldn't help feeling that joy and relief which never
desert one again."

Philip did not answer, but the headmaster read in his eyes that
he realised already something of what he tried to indicate.

"If you go on as you are now you'll find yourself head of the
school one of these days, and you ought to be pretty safe for a
scholarship when you leave. Have you got anything of your own?"

"My uncle says I shall have a hundred a year when I'm
twenty-one."

"You'll be rich. I had nothing."

The headmaster hesitated a moment, and then, idly drawing lines
with a pencil on the blotting paper in front of him, went on.

"I'm afraid your choice of professions will be rather limited.
You naturally couldn't go in for anything that required physical
activity."

Philip reddened to the roots of his hair, as he always did when
any reference was made to his club-foot. Mr. Perkins looked at
him gravely.

"I wonder if you're not oversensitive about your misfortune. Has
it ever struck you to thank God for it?"

Philip looked up quickly. His lips tightened. He remembered how
for months, trusting in what they told him, he had implored God
to heal him as He had healed the Leper and made the Blind to
see.

"As long as you accept it rebelliously it can only cause you
shame. But if you looked upon it as a cross that was given you
to bear only because your shoulders were strong enough to bear
it, a sign of God's favour, then it would be a source of
happiness to you instead of misery."

He saw that the boy hated to discuss the matter and he let him
go.

But Philip thought over all that the headmaster had said, and
presently, his mind taken up entirely with the ceremony that was
before him, a mystical rapture seized him. His spirit seemed to
free itself from the bonds of the flesh and he seemed to be
living a new life. He aspired to perfection with all the passion
that was in him. He wanted to surrender himself entirely to the
service of God, and he made up his mind definitely that he would
be ordained. When the great day arrived, his soul deeply moved
by all the preparation, by the books he had studied and above
all by the overwhelming influence of the head, he could hardly
contain himself for fear and joy. One thought had tormented him.
He knew that he would have to walk alone through the chancel,
and he dreaded showing his limp thus obviously, not only to the
whole school, who were attending the service, but also to the
strangers, people from the city or parents who had come to see
their sons confirmed. But when the time came he felt suddenly
that he could accept the humiliation joyfully; and as he limped
up the chancel, very small and insignificant beneath the lofty
vaulting of the Cathedral, he offered consciously his deformity
as a sacrifice to the God who loved him.


CHAPTER XVIII

BUT Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the
hilltops. What had happened to him when first he was seized by
the religious emotion happened to him now. Because he felt so
keenly the beauty of faith, because the desire for
self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a gem-like glow,
his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was tired out
by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on a sudden
with a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of God
which had seemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises,
still very punctually performed, grew merely formal. At first he
blamed himself for this falling away, and the fear of hell-fire
urged him to renewed vehemence; but the passion was dead, and
gradually other interests distracted his thoughts.

Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it
became such a need that after being in company for some time he
grew tired and restless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he
had acquired from the perusal of so many books, his mind was
alert, and he had not the skill to hide his contempt for his
companions' stupidity. They complained that he was conceited;
and, since he excelled only in matters which to them were
unimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited
about. He was developing a sense of humour, and found that he
had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught people on the
raw; he said them because they amused him, hardly realising how
much they hurt, and was much offended when he found that his
victims regarded him with active dislike. The humiliations he
suffered when first he went to school had caused in him a
shrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely
overcome; he remained shy and silent. But though he did
everything to alienate the sympathy of other boys he longed with
all his heart for the popularity which to some was so easily
accorded. These from his distance he admired extravagantly; and
though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with
others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he would
have given anything to change places with them. Indeed he would
gladly have changed places with the dullest boy in the school
who was whole of limb. He took to a singular habit. He would
imagine that he was some boy whom he had a particular fancy for;
he would throw his soul, as it were, into the other's body, talk
with his voice and laugh with his heart; he would imagine
himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vivid that
he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this
way he enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness.

At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his
confirmation Philip found himself moved into another study. One
of the boys who shared it was called Rose. He was in the same
form as Philip, and Philip had always looked upon him with
envious admiration. He was not good-looking; though his large
hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tall man, he
was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he
laughed (he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round
them in a jolly way. He was neither clever nor stupid, but good
enough at his work and better at games. He was a favourite with
masters and boys, and he in his turn liked everyone.

When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that
the others, who had been together for three terms, welcomed him
coldly. It made him nervous to feel himself an intruder; but he
had learned to hide his feelings, and they found him quiet and
unobtrusive. With Rose, because he was as little able as anyone
else to resist his charm, Philip was even more than usually shy
and abrupt; and whether on account of this, unconsciously bent
upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only by the
results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was Rose
who first took Philip into the circle. One day, quite suddenly,
he asked Philip if he would walk to the football field with him.
Philip flushed.

"I can't walk fast enough for you," he said.

"Rot. Come on."

And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in
the study-door and asked Rose to go with him.

"I can't," he answered. "I've already promised Carey."

"Don't bother about me," said Philip quickly. "I shan't mind."

"Rot," said Rose.

He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and
laughed. Philip felt a curious tremor in his heart.

In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish
rapidity, the pair were inseparable. Other fellows wondered at
the sudden intimacy, and Rose was asked what he saw in Philip.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "He's not half a bad chap
really."

Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in
arm or strolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever
one was the other could be found also, and, as though
acknowledging his proprietorship, boys who wanted Rose would
leave messages with Carey. Philip at first was reserved. He
would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy that
filled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way
before a wild happiness. He thought Rose the most wonderful
fellow he had ever seen. His books now were insignificant; he
could not bother about them when there was something infinitely
more important to occupy him. Rose's friends used to come in to
tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was nothing
better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and
they found that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was
happy.

When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which
train they should come back, so that they might meet at the
station and have tea in the town before returning to school.
Philip went home with a heavy heart. He thought of Rose all
through the holidays, and his fancy was active with the things
they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage,
and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in
the usual facetious tone:

"Well, are you glad to be going back to school?"

Philip answered joyfully.

"Rather."

In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an
earlier train than he usually did, and he waited about the
platform for an hour. When the train came in from Faversham,
where he knew Rose had to change, he ran along it excitedly. But
Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell him when another
train was due, and he waited; but again he was disappointed; and
he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through side-streets and
slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in the study,
with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the
dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there
was to sit on. He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but
Philip's face fell, for he realised that Rose had forgotten all
about their appointment.

"I say, why are you so late?" said Rose. "I thought you were
never coming."

"You were at the station at half-past four," said another boy.
"I saw you when I came."

Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he
had been such a fool as to wait for him.

"I had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented
readily. "I was asked to see her off."

But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in
silence, and when spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was
making up his mind to have it out with Rose when they were
alone. But when the others had gone Rose at once came over and
sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was lounging.

"I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term.
Ripping, isn't it?"

He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's
annoyance vanished. They began as if they had not been separated
for five minutes to talk eagerly of the thousand things that
interested them.


CHAPTER XIX

AT FIRST Philip had been too grateful for Rose's friendship to
make any demands on him. He took things as they came and enjoyed
life. But presently he began to resent Rose's universal
amiability; he wanted a more exclusive attachment, and he
claimed as a right what before he had accepted as a favour. He
watched jealously Rose's companionship with others; and though
he knew it was unreasonable could not help sometimes saying
bitter things to him. If Rose spent an hour playing the fool in
another study, Philip would receive him when he returned to his
own with a sullen frown. He would sulk for a day, and he
suffered more because Rose either did not notice his ill-humour
or deliberately ignored it. Not seldom Philip, knowing all the
time how stupid he was, would force a quarrel, and they would
not speak to one another for a couple of days. But Philip could
not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced that
he was in the right, would apologise humbly. Then for a week
they would be as great friends as ever. But the best was over,
and Philip could see that Rose often walked with him merely from
old habit or from fear of his anger; they had not so much to say
to one another as at first, and Rose was often bored. Philip
felt that his lameness began to irritate him.

Towards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet
fever, and there was much talk of sending them all home in order
to escape an epidemic; but the sufferers were isolated, and
since no more were attacked it was supposed that the outbreak
was stopped. One of the stricken was Philip. He remained in
hospital through the Easter holidays, and at the beginning of
the summer term was sent home to the vicarage to get a little
fresh air. The Vicar, notwithstanding medical assurance that the
boy was no longer infectious, received him with suspicion; he
thought it very inconsiderate of the doctor to suggest that his
nephew's convalescence should be spent by the seaside, and
consented to have him in the house only because there was
nowhere else he could go.

Philip went back to school at half-term. He had forgotten the
quarrels he had had with Rose, but remembered only that he was
his greatest friend. He knew that he had been silly. He made up
his mind to be more reasonable. During his illness Rose had sent
him in a couple of little notes, and he had ended each with the
words: "Hurry up and come back." Philip thought Rose must be
looking forward as much to his return as he was himself to
seeing Rose.

He found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of
the boys in the Sixth there had been some shifting in the
studies and Rose was no longer in his. It was a bitter
disappointment. But as soon as he arrived he burst into Rose's
study. Rose was sitting at his desk, working with a boy called
Hunter, and turned round crossly as Philip came in.

"Who the devil's that?" he cried. And then, seeing Philip: "Oh,
it's you."

Philip stopped in embarrassment.

"I thought I'd come in and see how you were."

"We were just working."

Hunter broke into the conversation.

"When did you get back?"

"Five minutes ago."

They sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them.
They evidently expected him to go quickly. Philip reddened.

"I'll be off. You might look in when you've done," he said to
Rose.

"All right."

Philip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own
study. He felt frightfully hurt. Rose, far from seeming glad to
see him, had looked almost put out. They might never have been
more than acquaintances. Though he waited in his study, not
leaving it for a moment in case just then Rose should come, his
friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in to
prayers he saw Rose and Hunter singing along arm in arm. What he
could not see for himself others told him. He had forgotten that
three months is a long time in a schoolboy's life, and though he
had passed them in solitude Rose had lived in the world. Hunter
had stepped into the vacant place. Philip found that Rose was
quietly avoiding him. But he was not the boy to accept a
situation without putting it into words; he waited till he was
sure Rose was alone in his study and went in.

"May I come in?" he asked.

Rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry
with Philip.

"Yes, if you want to."

"It's very kind of you," said Philip sarcastically.

"What d'you want?"

"I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?"

"Oh, don't be an ass," said Rose.

"I don't know what you see in Hunter."

"That's my business."

Philip looked down. He could not bring himself to say what was
in his heart. He was afraid of humiliating himself. Rose got up.

"I've got to go to the Gym," he said.

When he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak.

"I say, Rose, don't be a perfect beast."

"Oh, go to hell."

Rose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone. Philip
shivered with rage. He went back to his study and turned the
conversation over in his mind. He hated Rose now, he wanted to
hurt him, he thought of biting things he might have said to him.
He brooded over the end to their friendship and fancied that
others were talking of it. In his sensitiveness he saw sneers
and wonderings in other fellows' manner when they were not
bothering their heads with him at all. He imagined to himself
what they were saying.

"After all, it wasn't likely to last long. I wonder he ever
stuck Carey at all. Blighter!"

To show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with
a boy called Sharp whom he hated and despised. He was a London
boy, with a loutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of
a moustache on his lip and bushy eyebrows that joined one
another across the bridge of his nose. He had soft hands and
manners too suave for his years. He spoke with the suspicion of
a cockney accent. He was one of those boys who are too slack to
play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses
to avoid such as were compulsory. He was regarded by boys and
masters with a vague dislike, and it was from arrogance that
Philip now sought his society. Sharp in a couple of terms was
going to Germany for a year. He hated school, which he looked
upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old enough to go
out into the world. London was all he cared for, and he had many
stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays. From
his conversation--he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice--there
emerged the vague rumour of the London streets by night. Philip
listened to him at once fascinated and repelled. With his vivid
fancy he seemed to see the surging throng round the pit-door of
theatres, and the glitter of cheap restaurants, bars where men,
half drunk, sat on high stools talking with barmaids; and under
the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds bent upon
pleasure. Sharp lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which
Philip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear.

Once Rose tried to effect a reconciliation. He was a
good-natured fellow, who did not like having enemies.

"I say, Carey, why are you being such a silly ass? It doesn't do
you any good cutting me and all that."

"I don't know what you mean," answered Philip.

"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't talk."

"You bore me," said Philip.

"Please yourself."

Rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very white,
as he always became when he was moved, and his heart beat
violently. When Rose went away he felt suddenly sick with
misery. He did not know why he had answered in that fashion. He
would have given anything to be friends with Rose. He hated to
have quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had given him
pain he was very sorry. But at the moment he had not been master
of himself. It seemed that some devil had seized him, forcing
him to say bitter things against his will, even though at the
time he wanted to shake hands with Rose and meet him more than
halfway. The desire to wound had been too strong for him. He had
wanted to revenge himself for the pain and the humiliation he
had endured. It was pride: it was folly too, for he knew that
Rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bitterly. The
thought came to him that he would go to Rose, and say:

"I say, I'm sorry I was such a beast. I couldn't help it. Let's
make it up."

But he knew he would never be able to do it. He was afraid that
Rose would sneer at him. He was angry with himself, and when
Sharp came in a little while afterwards he seized upon the first
opportunity to quarrel with him. Philip had a fiendish instinct
for discovering other people's raw spots, and was able to say
things that rankled because they were true. But Sharp had the
last word.

"I heard Rose talking about you to Mellor just now," he said.
"Mellor said: Why didn't you kick him? It would teach him
manners. And Rose said: I didn't like to. Damned cripple."

Philip suddenly became scarlet. He could not answer, for there
was a lump in his throat that almost choked him.


CHAPTER XX

PHILIP was moved into the Sixth, but he hated school now with
all his heart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing
whether he did ill or well. He awoke in the morning with a
sinking heart because he must go through another day of
drudgery. He was tired of having to do things because he was
told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they were
unreasonable, but because they were restrictions. He yearned for
freedom. He was weary of repeating things that he knew already
and of the hammering away, for the sake of a thick-witted
fellow, at something that he understood from the beginning.

With Mr. Perkins you could work or not as you chose. He was at
once eager and abstracted. The Sixth Form room was in a part of
the old abbey which had been restored, and it had a gothic
window: Philip tried to cheat his boredom by drawing this over
and over again; and sometimes out of his head he drew the great
tower of the Cathedral or the gateway that led into the
precincts. He had a knack for drawing. Aunt Louisa during her
youth had painted in water colours, and she had several albums
filled with sketches of churches, old bridges, and picturesque
cottages. They were often shown at the vicarage tea-parties. She
had once given Philip a paint-box as a Christmas present, and he
had started by copying her pictures. He copied them better than
anyone could have expected, and presently he did little pictures
of his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to keep
him out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful
for bazaars. Two or three of them had been framed and hung in
his bed-room.

But one day, at the end of the morning's work, Mr. Perkins
stopped him as he was lounging out of the form-room.

"I want to speak to you, Carey."

Philip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through his
beard and looked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking over what
he wanted to say.

"What's the matter with you, Carey?" he said abruptly.

Philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him well by
now, without answering, he waited for him to go on.

"I've been dissatisfied with you lately. You've been slack and
inattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work. It's
been slovenly and bad."

"I'm very sorry, sir," said Philip.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

Philip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he was
bored to death?

"You know, this term you'll go down instead of up. I shan't give
you a very good report."

Philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was
treated. It arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced at it
indifferently, and passed it over to Philip.

"There's your report. You'd better see what it says," he
remarked, as he ran his fingers through the wrapper of a
catalogue of second-hand books.

Philip read it.

"Is it good?" asked Aunt Louisa.

"Not so good as I deserve," answered Philip, with a smile,
giving it to her.

"I'll read it afterwards when I've got my spectacles," she said.

But after breakfast Mary Ann came in to say the butcher was
there, and she generally forgot.

Mr. Perkins went on.

"I'm disappointed with you. And I can't understand. I know you
can do things if you want to, but you don't seem to want to any
more. I was going to make you a monitor next term, but I think
I'd better wait a bit."

Philip flushed. He did not like the thought of being passed
over. He tightened his lips.

"And there's something else. You must begin thinking of your
scholarship now. You won't get anything unless you start working
very seriously."

Philip was irritated by the lecture. He was angry with the
headmaster, and angry with himself.

"I don't think I'm going up to Oxford," he said.

"Why not? I thought your idea was to be ordained."

"I've changed my mind."

"Why?"

Philip did not answer. Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he
always did, like a figure in one of Perugino's pictures, drew
his fingers thoughtfully through his beard. He looked at Philip
as though he were trying to understand and then abruptly told
him he might go.

Apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later,
when Philip had to go into his study with some papers, he
resumed the conversation; but this time he adopted a different
method: he spoke to Philip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but
as one human being with another. He did not seem to care now
that Philip's work was poor, that he ran small chance against
keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship necessary for him to
go to Oxford: the important matter was his changed intention
about his life afterwards. Mr. Perkins set himself to revive his
eagerness to be ordained. With infinite skill he worked on his
feelings, and this was easier since he was himself genuinely
moved. Philip's change of mind caused him bitter distress, and
he really thought he was throwing away his chance of happiness
in life for he knew not what. His voice was very persuasive. And
Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very emotional
himself notwithstanding a placid exterior--his face, partly by
nature but also from the habit of all these years at school,
seldom except by his quick flushing showed what he felt--Philip
was deeply touched by what the master said. He was very grateful
to him for the interest he showed, and he was
conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his behaviour
caused him. It was subtly flattering to know that with the whole
school to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but
at the same time something else in him, like another person
standing at his elbow, clung desperately to two words.

"I won't. I won't. I won't."

He felt himself slipping. He was powerless against the weakness
that seemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises
up in an empty bottle held over a full basin; and he set his
teeth, saying the words over and over to himself.

"I won't. I won't. I won't."

At last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip's shoulder.

"I don't want to influence you," he said. "You must decide for
yourself. Pray to Almighty God for help and guidance."

When Philip came out of the headmaster's house there was a light
rain falling. He went under the archway that led to the
precincts, there was not a soul there, and the rooks were silent
in the elms. He walked round slowly. He felt hot, and the rain
did him good. He thought over all that Mr. Perkins had said,
calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of his
personality, and he was thankful he had not given way.

In the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the
Cathedral: he hated it now because of the irksomeness of the
long services which he was forced to attend. The anthem was
interminable, and you had to stand drearily while it was being
sung; you could not hear the droning sermon, and your body
twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted to move
about. Then philip thought of the two services every Sunday at
Blackstable. The church was bare and cold, and there was a smell
all about one of pomade and starched clothes. The curate
preached once and his uncle preached once. As he grew up he had
learned to know his uncle; Philip was downright and intolerant,
and he could not understand that a man might sincerely say
things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man. The
deception outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish man,
whose chief desire it was to be saved trouble.

Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated
to the service of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy
led in the corner of East Anglia which was his home. There was
the Vicar of Whitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable:
he was a bachelor and to give himself something to do had lately
taken up farming: the local paper constantly reported the cases
he had in the county court against this one and that, labourers
he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen whom he accused of
cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and there was
much talk about some general action which should be taken
against him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine
figure of a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because
of his cruelty, and she had filled the neighbourhood with
stories of his immorality. The Vicar of Surle, a tiny hamlet by
the sea, was to be seen every evening in the public house a
stone's throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had been
to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of
them to talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were
long winter evenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily
through the leafless trees, and all around they saw nothing but
the bare monotony of ploughed fields; and there was poverty, and
there was lack of any work that seemed to matter; every kink in
their characters had free play; there was nothing to restrain
them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this, but
in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He
shivered at the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get
out into the world.


CHAPTER XXI

MR. PERKINS soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip,
and for the rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report
which was vitriolic. When it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked
Philip what it was like, he answered cheerfully.

"Rotten."

"Is it?" said the Vicar. "I must look at it again."

"Do you think there's any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I
should have thought it would be better if I went to Germany for
a bit."

"What has put that in your head?" said Aunt Louisa.

"Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"

Sharp had already left King's School and had written to Philip
from Hanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip
more restless to think of it. He felt he could not bear another
year of restraint.

"But then you wouldn't get a scholarship."

"I haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don't
know that I particularly want to go to Oxford."

"But if you're going to be ordained, Philip?" Aunt Louisa
exclaimed in dismay.

"I've given up that idea long ago."

Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to
self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle.
They did not speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling
down her cheeks. His heart was suddenly wrung because he caused
her pain. In her tight black dress, made by the dressmaker down
the street, with her wrinkled face and pale tired eyes, her gray
hair still done in the frivolous ringlets of her youth, she was
a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. Philip saw it for
the first time.

Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the
curate, he put his arms round her waist.

"I say, I'm sorry you're upset, Aunt Louisa," he said. "But it's
no good my being ordained if I haven't a real vocation, is it?"

"I'm so disappointed, Philip," she moaned. "I'd set my heart on
it. I thought you could be your uncle's curate, and then when
our time came--after all, we can't last for ever, can we?--you
might have taken his place."

Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like
a pigeon in a trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly,
her head upon his shoulder.

"I wish you'd persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury.
I'm so sick of it."

But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any
arrangements he had made, and it had always been intended that
Philip should stay at King's School till he was eighteen, and
should then go to Oxford. At all events he would not hear of
Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and the term's
fee would have to be paid in any case.

"Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?" said
Philip, at the end of a long and often bitter conversation.

"I'll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says."

"Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at
Somebody else's beck and call."

"Philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like that," said Mrs.
Carey gently.

"But don't you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so
much a head for every chap in the school."

"Why don't you want to go to Oxford?"

"What's the good if I'm not going into the Church?"

"You can't go into the Church: you're in the Church already,"
said the Vicar.

"Ordained then," replied Philip impatiently.

"What are you going to be, Philip?" asked Mrs. Carey.

"I don't know. I've not made up my mind. But whatever I am,
it'll be useful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more
out of a year in Germany than by staying on at that hole."

He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than
a continuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be
his own master. Besides he would be known to a certain extent
among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them
all. He felt that his life at school had been a failure. He
wanted to start fresh.

It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with
certain ideas which had been of late discussed at Blackstable.
Sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news
of the world outside; and the visitors spending August by the
sea had their own way of looking at things. The Vicar had heard
that there were people who did not think the old-fashioned
education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and
modern languages were gaining an importance which they had not
had in his own youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger
brother of his had been sent to Germany when he failed in some
examination, thus creating a precedent but since he had there
died of typhoid it was impossible to look upon the experiment as
other than dangerous. The result of innumerable conversations
was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for another term,
and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was not
dissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the
headmaster spoke to him.

"I've had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to
Germany, and he asks me what I think about it."

Philip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going
back on his word.

"I thought it was settled, sir," he said.

"Far from it. I've written to say I think it the greatest
mistake to take you away."

Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his
uncle. He did not measure his language. He was so angry that he
could not get to sleep till quite late that night, and he awoke
in the early morning and began brooding over the way they had
treated him. He waited impatiently for an answer. In two or
three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter from Aunt
Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his
uncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and
unchristian. He must know they were only trying to do their best
for him, and they were so much older than he that they must be
better judges of what was good for him. Philip clenched his
hands. He had heard that statement so often, and he could not
see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he did,
why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age
gave them greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information
that Mr. Carey had withdrawn the notice he had given.

Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had
them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons
they had to go to a service in the Cathedral. He stopped behind
when the rest of the Sixth went out.

"May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?" he asked.

"No," said the headmaster briefly.

"I wanted to see my uncle about something very important."

"Didn't you hear me say no?"

Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with
humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the
humiliation of the curt refusal. He hated the headmaster now.
Philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a
reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to care what
he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back
ways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to
Blackstable. He walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and
aunt sitting in the dining-room.

"Hulloa, where have you sprung from?" said the Vicar.

It was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked
a little uneasy.

"I thought I'd come and see you about my leaving. I want to know
what you mean by promising me one thing when I was here, and
doing something different a week after."

He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made
up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart
beat violently, he forced himself to say them.

"Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?"

"No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and
tell him I've been here you can get me into a really fine old
row."

Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to
scenes and they agitated her extremely.

"It would serve you right if I told him," said Mr. Carey.

"If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to
Perkins as you did you're quite capable of it."

It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar
exactly the opportunity he wanted.

"I'm not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to
me," he said with dignity.

He got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study.
Philip heard him shut the door and lock it.

"Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied
down like this."

Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly.

"Oh, Philip, you oughtn't to have spoken to your uncle like
that. Do please go and tell him you're sorry."

"I'm not in the least sorry. He's taking a mean advantage. Of
Course it's just waste of money keeping me on at school, but
what does he care? It's not his money. It was cruel to put me
under the guardianship of people who know nothing about things."

"Philip."

Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her
voice. It was heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter
things he was saying.

"Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying
to do our best for you, and we know that we have no experience;
it isn't as if we'd had any children of our own: that's why we
consulted Mr. Perkins." Her voice broke. "I've tried to be like
a mother to you. I've loved you as if you were my own son."

She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in
her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came
suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be beastly."

He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed
her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to
feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had never
surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion.

"I know I've not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I
didn't know how. It's been just as dreadful for me to have no
children as for you to have no mother."

Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only
of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses.
Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch
the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time for
call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he
saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his
weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned
from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears
of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations
between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster.
Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He
showed it to Philip. It ran:


Dear Mr. Perkins,

Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his
Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to
leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very
difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents.
He does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it
is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much obliged
if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same
mind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I
originally intended.
                       Yours very truly,
                               William Carey.

Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in
his triumph. He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His
will had gained a victory over the wills of others.

"It's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your
uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from you,"
said the headmaster irritably.

Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he
could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed
it and broke into a little laugh.

"You've rather scored, haven't you?" he said.

Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his
exultation.

"Is it true that you're very anxious to leave?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you unhappy here?"

Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into
the depths of his feelings.

"Oh, I don't know, sir."

Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard,
looked at him thoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to
himself.

"Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all
round, and whatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in
somehow. One hasn't time to bother about anything but the
average." Then suddenly he addressed himself to Philip: "Look
here, I've got a suggestion to make to you. It's getting on
towards the end of the term now. Another term won't kill you,
and if you want to go to Germany you'd better go after Easter
than after Christmas. It'll be much pleasanter in the spring
than in midwinter. If at the end of the next term you still want
to go I'll make no objection. What d'you say to that?"

"Thank you very much, sir."

Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he
did not mind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison
when he knew that before Easter he would be free from it for
ever. His heart danced within him. That evening in chapel he
looked round at the boys, standing according to their forms,
each in his due place, and he chuckled with satisfaction at the
thought that soon he would never see them again. It made him
regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested on
Rose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had
quite an idea of being a good influence in the school; it was
his turn to read the lesson that evening, and he read it very
well. Philip smiled when he thought that he would be rid of him
for ever, and it would not matter in six months whether Rose was
tall and straight-limbed; and where would the importance be that
he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip looked at the
masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of apoplexy
two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew now
what a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was
something of a man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the
subjection in which they had held him. In six months they would
not matter either. Their praise would mean nothing to him, and
he would shrug his shoulders at their censure.

Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs,
and shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high
spirits; and then, though he limped about demurely, silent and
reserved, it seemed to be hallooing in his heart. He seemed to
himself to walk more lightly. All sorts of ideas danced through
his head, fancies chased one another so furiously that he could
not catch them; but their coming and their going filled him with
exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, and during
the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his
long neglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen
pleasure in the activity of his intellect. He did very well in
the examinations that closed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one
remark: he was talking to him about an essay he had written,
and, after the usual criticisms, said:

"So you've made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit,
have you?"

He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking
down, gave an embarrassed smile.

The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the
various prizes which were given at the end of the summer term
had ceased to look upon Philip as a serious rival, but now they
began to regard him with some uneasiness. He told no one that he
was leaving at Easter and so was in no sense a competitor, but
left them to their anxieties. He knew that Rose flattered
himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays in
France; and he expected to get the Dean's Prize for English
essay; Philip got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his
dismay when he saw how much better Philip was doing in these
subjects than himself. Another fellow, Norton, could not go to
Oxford unless he got one of the scholarships at the disposal of
the school. He asked Philip if he was going in for them.

"Have you any objection?" asked Philip.

It entertained him to think that he held someone else's future
in his hand. There was something romantic in getting these
various rewards actually in his grasp, and then leaving them to
others because he disdained them. At last the breaking-up day
came, and he went to Mr. Perkins to bid him good-bye.

"You don't mean to say you really want to leave?"

Philip's face fell at the headmaster's evident surprise.

"You said you wouldn't put any objection in the way, sir," he
answered.

"I thought it was only a whim that I'd better humour. I know
you're obstinate and headstrong. What on earth d'you want to
leave for now? You've only got another term in any case. You can
get the Magdalen scholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes
we've got to give."

Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked;
but he had the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it.

"You'll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn't decide
at once what you're going to do afterwards. I wonder if you
realise how delightful the life is up there for anyone who has
brains."

"I've made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir," said
Philip.

"Are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?" asked
Mr. Perkins, with his quizzical smile. "I shall be very sorry to
lose you. In schools the rather stupid boys who work always do
better than the clever boy who's idle, but when the clever boy
works--why then, he does what you've done this term."

Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one
had ever told him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on
Philip's shoulder.

"You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is
dull work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching
a boy who comes half-way towards you, who understands almost
before you've got the words out of your mouth, why, then
teaching is the most exhilarating thing in the world." Philip
was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him that it
mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He was
touched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up
his school-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash
there appeared before him the life which he had heard described
from boys who came back to play in the O.K.S. match or in
letters from the University read out in one of the studies. But
he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his own eyes if he
gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the
headmaster's ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic
surrender of all these prizes which were in his reach, because
he disdained to take them, to the plain, ordinary winning of
them. It only required a little more persuasion, just enough to
save his self-respect, and Philip would have done anything that
Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of his
conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen.

"I think I'd rather go, sir," he said.

Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal
influence, grew a little impatient when his power was not
immediately manifest. He had a great deal of work to do, and
could not waste more time on a boy who seemed to him insanely
obstinate.

"Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and
I keep my promise. When do you go to Germany?"

Philip's heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did
not know whether he had not rather lost it.

"At the beginning of May, sir," he answered.

"Well, you must come and see us when you get back."

He held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip
would have changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the
matter as settled. Philip walked out of the house. His
school-days were over, and he was free; but the wild exultation
to which he had looked forward at that moment was not there. He
walked round the precincts slowly, and a profound depression
seized him. He wished now that he had not been foolish. He did
not want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go
to the headmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a
humiliation he could never put upon himself. He wondered whether
he had done right. He was dissatisfied with himself and with all
his circumstances. He asked himself dully whether whenever you
got your way you wished afterwards that you hadn't.


CHAPTER XXII

PHILIP'S uncle had an old friend, called Miss Wilkinson, who
lived in Berlin. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and it was
with her father, the rector of a village in Lincolnshire, that
Mr. Carey had spent his last curacy; on his death, forced to
earn her living, she had taken various situations as a governess
in France and Germany. She had kept up a correspondence with
Mrs. Carey, and two or three times had spent her holidays at
Blackstable Vicarage, paying as was usual with the Careys'
unfrequent guests a small sum for her keep. When it became clear
that it was less trouble to yield to Philip's wishes than to
resist them, Mrs. Carey wrote to ask her for advice. Miss
Wilkinson recommended Heidelberg as an excellent place to learn
German in and the house of Frau Professor Erlin as a comfortable
home. Philip might live there for thirty marks a week, and the
Professor himself, a teacher at the local high school, would
instruct him.

Philip arrived in Heidelberg one morning in May. His things were
put on a barrow and he followed the porter out of the station.
The sky was bright blue, and the trees in the avenue through
which they passed were thick with leaves; there was something in
the air fresh to Philip, and mingled with the timidity he felt
at entering on a new life, among strangers, was a great
exhilaration. He was a little disconsolate that no one had come
to meet him, and felt very shy when the porter left him at the
front door of a big white house. An untidy lad let him in and
took him into a drawing-room. It was filled with a large suite
covered in green velvet, and in the middle was a round table. On
this in water stood a bouquet of flowers tightly packed together
in a paper frill like the bone of a mutton chop, and carefully
spaced round it were books in leather bindings. There was a
musty smell.

Presently, with an odour of cooking, the Frau Professor came in,
a short, very stout woman with tightly dressed hair and a red
face; she had little eyes, sparkling like beads, and an effusive
manner. She took both Philip's hands and asked him about Miss
Wilkinson, who had twice spent a few weeks with her. She spoke
in German and in broken English. Philip could not make her
understand that he did not know Miss Wilkinson. Then her two
daughters appeared. They seemed hardly young to Philip, but
perhaps they were not more than twenty-five: the elder, Thekla,
was as short as her mother, with the same, rather shifty air,
but with a pretty face and abundant dark hair; Anna, her younger
sister, was tall and plain, but since she had a pleasant smile
Philip immediately preferred her. After a few minutes of polite
conversation the Frau Professor took Philip to his room and left
him. It was in a turret, looking over the tops of the trees in
the Anlage; and the bed was in an alcove, so that when you sat
at the desk it had not the look of a bed-room at all. Philip
unpacked his things and set out all his books. He was his own
master at last.

A bell summoned him to dinner at one o'clock, and he found the
Frau Professor's guests assembled in the drawing-room. He was
introduced to her husband, a tall man of middle age with a large
fair head, turning now to gray, and mild blue eyes. He spoke to
Philip in correct, rather archaic English, having learned it
from a study of the English classics, not from conversation; and
it was odd to hear him use words colloquially which Philip had
only met in the plays of Shakespeare. Frau Professor Erlin
called her establishment a family and not a pension; but it
would have required the subtlety of a metaphysician to find out
exactly where the difference lay. When they sat down to dinner
in a long dark apartment that led out of the drawing-room,
Philip, feeling very shy, saw that there were sixteen people.
The Frau Professor sat at one end and carved. The service was
conducted, with a great clattering of plates, by the same clumsy
lout who had opened the door for him; and though he was quick it
happened that the first persons to be served had finished before
the last had received their appointed portions. The Frau
Professor insisted that nothing but German should be spoken, so
that Philip, even if his bashfulness had permitted him to be
talkative, was forced to hold his tongue. He looked at the
people among whom he was to live. By the Frau Professor sat
several old ladies, but Philip did not give them much of his
attention. There were two young girls, both fair and one of them
very pretty, whom Philip heard addressed as Fraulein Hedwig and
Fraulein Cacilie. Fraulein Cacilie had a long pig-tail hanging
down her back. They sat side by side and chattered to one
another, with smothered laughter: now and then they glanced at
Philip and one of them said something in an undertone; they both
giggled, and Philip blushed awkwardly, feeling that they were
making fun of him. Near them sat a Chinaman, with a yellow face
and an expansive smile, who was studying Western conditions at
the University. He spoke so quickly, with a queer accent, that
the girls could not always understand him, and then they burst
out laughing. He laughed too, good-humouredly, and his almond
eyes almost closed as he did so. There were two or three
American men, in black coats, rather yellow and dry of skin:
they were theological students; Philip heard the twang of their
New England accent through their bad German, and he glanced at
them with suspicion; for he had been taught to look upon
Americans as wild and desperate barbarians.

Afterwards, when they had sat for a little on the stiff green
velvet chairs of the drawing-room, Fraulein Anna asked Philip if
he would like to go for a walk with them.

Philip accepted the invitation. They were quite a party. There
were the two daughters of the Frau Professor, the two other
girls, one of the American students, and Philip. Philip walked
by the side of Anna and Fraulein Hedwig. He was a little
fluttered. He had never known any girls. At Blackstable there
were only the farmers' daughters and the girls of the local
tradesmen. He knew them by name and by sight, but he was timid,
and he thought they laughed at his deformity. He accepted
willingly the difference which the Vicar and Mrs. Carey put
between their own exalted rank and that of the farmers. The
doctor had two daughters, but they were both much older than
Philip and had been married to successive assistants while
Philip was still a small boy. At school there had been two or
three girls of more boldness than modesty whom some of the boys
knew; and desperate stories, due in all probability to the
masculine imagination, were told of intrigues with them; but
Philip had always concealed under a lofty contempt the terror
with which they filled him. His imagination and the books he had
read had inspired in him a desire for the Byronic attitude; and
he was torn between a morbid self-consciousness and a conviction
that he owed it to himself to be gallant. He felt now that he
should be bright and amusing, but his brain seemed empty and he
could not for the life of him think of anything to say. Fraulein
Anna, the Frau Professor's daughter, addressed herself to him
frequently from a sense of duty, but the other said little: she
looked at him now and then with sparkling eyes, and sometimes to
his confusion laughed outright. Philip felt that she thought him
perfectly ridiculous. They walked along the side of a hill among
pine-trees, and their pleasant odour caused Philip a keen
delight. The day was warm and cloudless. At last they came to an
eminence from which they saw the valley of the Rhine spread out
before them under the sun. It was a vast stretch of country,
sparkling with golden light, with cities in the distance; and
through it meandered the silver ribband of the river. Wide
spaces are rare in the corner of Kent which Philip knew, the sea
offers the only broad horizon, and the immense distance he saw
now gave him a peculiar, an indescribable thrill. He felt
suddenly elated. Though he did not know it, it was the first
time that he had experienced, quite undiluted with foreign
emotions, the sense of beauty. They sat on a bench, the three of
them, for the others had gone on, and while the girls talked in
rapid German, Philip, indifferent to their proximity, feasted
his eyes.

"By Jove, I am happy," he said to himself unconsciously.


CHAPTER XXIII

PHILIP thought occasionally of the King's School at Tercanbury,
and laughed to himself as he remembered what at some particular
moment of the day they were doing. Now and then he dreamed that
he was there still, and it gave him an extraordinary
satisfaction, on awaking, to realise that he was in his little
room in the turret. From his bed he could see the great cumulus
clouds that hung in the blue sky. He revelled in his freedom. He
could go to bed when he chose and get up when the fancy took
him. There was no one to order him about. It struck him that he
need not tell any more lies.

It had been arranged that Professor Erlin should teach him Latin
and German; a Frenchman came every day to give him lessons in
French; and the Frau Professor had recommended for mathematics
an Englishman who was taking a philological degree at the
university. This was a man named Wharton. Philip went to him
every morning. He lived in one room on the top floor of a shabby
house. It was dirty and untidy, and it was filled with a pungent
odour made up of many different stinks. He was generally in bed
when Philip arrived at ten o'clock, and he jumped out, put on a
filthy dressing-gown and felt slippers, and, while he gave
instruction, ate his simple breakfast. He was a short man, stout
from excessive beer drinking, with a heavy moustache and long,
unkempt hair. He had been in Germany for five years and was
become very Teutonic. He spoke with scorn of Cambridge where he
had taken his degree and with horror of the life which awaited
him when, having taken his doctorate in Heidelberg, he must
return to England and a pedagogic career. He adored the life of
the German university with its happy freedom and its jolly
companionships. He was a member of a Burschenschaft, and
promised to take Philip to a Kneipe. He was very poor and made
no secret that the lessons he was giving Philip meant the
difference between meat for his dinner and bread and cheese.
Sometimes after a heavy night he had such a headache that he
could not drink his coffee, and he gave his lesson with
heaviness of spirit. For these occasions he kept a few bottles
of beer under the bed, and one of these and a pipe would help
him to bear the burden of life.

"A hair of the dog that bit him," he would say as he poured out
the beer, carefully so that the foam should not make him wait
too long to drink.

Then he would talk to Philip of the university, the quarrels
between rival corps, the duels, and the merits of this and that
professor. Philip learnt more of life from him than of
mathematics. Sometimes Wharton would sit back with a laugh and
say:

"Look here, we've not done anything today. You needn't pay me
for the lesson."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Philip.

This was something new and very interesting, and he felt that it
was of greater import than trigonometry, which he never could
understand. It was like a window on life that he had a chance of
peeping through, and he looked with a wildly beating heart.

"No, you can keep your dirty money," said Wharton.

"But how about your dinner?" said Philip, with a smile, for he
knew exactly how his master's finances stood.

Wharton had even asked him to pay him the two shillings which
the lesson cost once a week rather than once a month, since it
made things less complicated.

"Oh, never mind my dinner. It won't be the first time I've dined
off a bottle of beer, and my mind's never clearer than when I
do."

He dived under the bed (the sheets were gray with want of
washing), and fished out another bottle. Philip, who was young
and did not know the good things of life, refused to share it
with him, so he drank alone.

"How long are you going to stay here?" asked Wharton.

Both he and Philip had given up with relief the pretence of
mathematics.

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose about a year. Then my people want
me to go to Oxford."

Wharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. It was a new
experience for Philip to learn that there were persons who did
not look upon that seat of learning with awe.

"What d'you want to go there for? You'll only be a glorified
schoolboy. Why don't you matriculate here? A year's no good.
Spend five years here. You know, there are two good things in
life, freedom of thought and freedom of action. In France you
get freedom of action: you can do what you like and nobody
bothers, but you must think like everybody else. In Germany you
must do what everybody else does, but you may think as you
choose. They're both very good things. I personally prefer
freedom of thought. But in England you get neither: you're
ground down by convention. You can't think as you like and you
can't act as you like. That's because it's a democratic nation.
I expect America's worse."

He leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a
ricketty leg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical
flourish was interrupted by a sudden fall to the floor.

"I ought to go back to England this year, but if I can scrape
together enough to keep body and soul on speaking terms I shall
stay another twelve months. But then I shall have to go. And I
must leave all this"--he waved his arm round the dirty garret,
with its unmade bed, the clothes lying on the floor, a row of
empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound, ragged
books in every corner--"for some provincial university where I
shall try and get a chair of philology. And I shall play tennis
and go to tea-parties." He interrupted himself and gave Philip,
very neatly dressed, with a clean collar on and his hair
well-brushed, a quizzical look. "And, my God! I shall have to
wash."

Philip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable
reproach; for of late he had begun to pay some attention to his
toilet, and he had come out from England with a pretty selection
of ties.

The summer came upon the country like a conqueror. Each day was
beautiful. The sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves
like a spur. The green of the trees in the Anlage was violent
and crude; and the houses, when the sun caught them, had a
dazzling white which stimulated till it hurt. Sometimes on his
way back from Wharton Philip would sit in the shade on one of
the benches in the Anlage, enjoying the coolness and watching
the patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves,
made on the ground. His soul danced with delight as gaily as the
sunbeams. He revelled in those moments of idleness stolen from
his work. Sometimes he sauntered through the streets of the old
town. He looked with awe at the students of the corps, their
cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about in their coloured
caps. In the afternoons he wandered about the hills with the
girls in the Frau Professor's house, and sometimes they went up
the river and had tea in a leafy beer-garden. In the evenings
they walked round and round the Stadtgarten, listening to the
band.

Philip soon learned the various interests of the household.
Fraulein Thekla, the professor's elder daughter, was engaged to
a man in England who had spent twelve months in the house to
learn German, and their marriage was to take place at the end of
the year. But the young man wrote that his father, an
india-rubber merchant who lived in Slough, did not approve of
the union, and Fraulein Thekla was often in tears. Sometimes she
and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined
mouths, looking over the letters of the reluctant lover. Thekla
painted in water colour, and occasionally she and Philip, with
another of the girls to keep them company, would go out and
paint little pictures. The pretty Fraulein Hedwig had amorous
troubles too. She was the daughter of a merchant in Berlin and
a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a _von_ if you
please: but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her
condition, and she had been sent to Heidelberg to forget him.
She could never, never do this, and corresponded with him
continually, and he was making every effort to induce an
exasperating father to change his mind. She told all this to
Philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him
the photograph of the gay lieutenant. Philip liked her best of
all the girls at the Frau Professor's, and on their walks always
tried to get by her side. He blushed a great deal when the
others chaffed him for his obvious preference. He made the first
declaration in his life to Fraulein Hedwig, but unfortunately it
was an accident, and it happened in this manner. In the evenings
when they did not go out, the young women sang little songs in
the green velvet drawing-room, while Fraulein Anna, who always
made herself useful, industriously accompanied. Fraulein
Hedwig's favourite song was called _Ich liebe dich_, I love
you; and one evening after she had sung this, when Philip was
standing with her on the balcony, looking at the stars, it
occurred to him to make some remark about it. He began:

"_Ich liebe dich_."

His German was halting, and he looked about for the word he
wanted. The pause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on
Fraulein Hedwig said:

"_Ach, Herr Carey, Sie mussen mir nicht du sagen_--you mustn't
talk to me in the second person singular."

Philip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have
dared to do anything so familiar, and he could think of nothing
on earth to say. It would be ungallant to explain that he was
not making an observation, but merely mentioning the title of a
song.

"_Entschuldigen Sie_," he said. "I beg your pardon."

"It does not matter," she whispered.

She smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it,
then turned back into the drawing-room.

Next day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her,
and in his shyness did all that was possible to avoid her. When
he was asked to go for the usual walk he refused because, he
said, he had work to do. But Fraulein Hedwig seized an
opportunity to speak to him alone.

"Why are you behaving in this way?" she said kindly. "You know,
I'm not angry with you for what you said last night. You can't
help it if you love me. I'm flattered. But although I'm not
exactly engaged to Hermann I can never love anyone else, and I
look upon myself as his bride."

Philip blushed again, but he put on quite the expression of a
rejected lover.

"I hope you'll be very happy," he said.


CHAPTER XXIV

PROFESSOR ERLIN gave Philip a lesson every day. He made out a
list of books which Philip was to read till he was ready for the
final achievement of _Faust_, and meanwhile, ingeniously
enough, started him on a German translation of one of the plays
by Shakespeare which Philip had studied at school. It was the
period in Germany of Goethe's highest fame. Notwithstanding his
rather condescending attitude towards patriotism he had been
adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of
seventy to be one of the most significant glories of national
unity. The enthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the
_Walpurgisnacht_ to hear the rattle of artillery at Gravelotte.
But one mark of a writer's greatness is that different minds can
find in him different inspirations; and Professor Erlin, who
hated the Prussians, gave his enthusiastic admiration to Goethe
because his works, Olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge
for a sane mind against the onslaughts of the present
generation. There was a dramatist whose name of late had been
much heard at Heidelberg, and the winter before one of his plays
had been given at the theatre amid the cheers of adherents and
the hisses of decent people. Philip heard discussions about it
at the Frau Professor's long table, and at these Professor Erlin
lost his wonted calm: he beat the table with his fist, and
drowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. It
was nonsense and obscene nonsense. He forced himself to sit the
play out, but he did not know whether he was more bored or
nauseated. If that was what the theatre was coming to, then it
was high time the police stepped in and closed the playhouses.
He was no prude and could laugh as well as anyone at the witty
immorality of a farce at the Palais Royal, but here was nothing
but filth. With an emphatic gesture he held his nose and
whistled through his teeth. It was the ruin of the family, the
uprooting of morals, the destruction of Germany.

"_Aber, Adolf_," said the Frau Professor from the other end of
the table. "Calm yourself."

He shook his fist at her. He was the mildest of creatures and
ventured upon no action of his life without consulting her.

"No, Helene, I tell you this," he shouted. "I would sooner my
daughters were lying dead at my feet than see them listening to
the garbage of that shameless fellow."

The play was _The Doll's House_ and the author was Henrik
Ibsen.

Professor Erlin classed him with Richard Wagner, but of him he
spoke not with anger but with good-humoured laughter. He was a
charlatan but a successful charlatan, and in that was always
something for the comic spirit to rejoice in.

"_Verruckter Kerl!_ A madman!" he said.

He had seen _Lohengrin_ and that passed muster. It was dull
but no worse. But _Siegfried!_ When he mentioned it Professor
Erlin leaned his head on his hand and bellowed with laughter.
Not a melody in it from beginning to end! He could imagine
Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing till his sides
ached at the sight of all the people who were taking it
seriously. It was the greatest hoax of the nineteenth century.
He lifted his glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head,
and drank till the glass was empty. Then wiping his mouth with
the back of his hand, he said:

"I tell you young people that before the nineteenth century is
out Wagner will be as dead as mutton. Wagner! I would give all
his works for one opera by Donizetti."


CHAPTER XXV

THE oddest of Philip's masters was his teacher of French.
Monsieur Ducroz was a citizen of Geneva. He was a tall old man,
with a sallow skin and hollow cheeks; his gray hair was thin and
long. He wore shabby black clothes, with holes at the elbows of
his coat and frayed trousers. His linen was very dirty. Philip
had never seen him in a clean collar. He was a man of few words,
who gave his lesson conscientiously but without enthusiasm,
arriving as the clock struck and leaving on the minute. His
charges were very small. He was taciturn, and what Philip learnt
about him he learnt from others: it appeared that he had fought
with Gatibaldi against the Pope, but had left Italy in disgust
when it was clear that all his efforts for freedom, by which he
meant the establishment of a republic, tended to no more than an
exchange of yokes; he had been expelled from Geneva for it was
not known what political offences. Philip looked upon him with
puzzled surprise; for he was very unlike his idea of the
revolutionary: he spoke in a low voice and was extraordinarily
polite; he never sat down till he was asked to; and when on rare
occasions he met Philip in the street took off his hat with an
elaborate gesture; he never laughed, he never even smiled. A
more complete imagination than Philip's might have pictured a
youth of splendid hope, for he must have been entering upon
manhood in 1848 when kings, remembering their brother of France,
went about with an uneasy crick in theit necks; and perhaps that
passion for liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before
it what of absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the
reaction from the revolution of 1789, filled no breast with a
hotter fire. One might fancy him, passionate with theories of
human equality and human rights, discussing, arguing, fighting
behind barricades in Paris, flying before the Austrian cavalry
in Milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hoping on and
upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the word
Liberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old,
without means to keep body and soul together but such lessons as
he could pick up from poor students, he found himself in that
little neat town under the heel of a personal tyranny greater
than any in Europe. Perhaps his taciturnity hid a contempt for
the human race which had abandoned the great dreams of his youth
and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps these thirty years
of revolution had taught him that men are unfit for liberty, and
he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that
which was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and
waited only with indifference for the release of death.

One day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it
was true he had been with Garibaldi. The old man did not seem to
attach any importance to the question. He answered quite quietly
in as low a voice as usual.

"_Oui, monsieur_."

"They say you were in the Commune?"

"Do they? Shall we get on with our work?"

He held the book open and Philip, intimidated, began to
translate the passage he had prepared.

One day Monsieur Ducroz seemed to be in great pain. He had been
scarcely able to drag himself up the many stairs to Philip's
room: and when he arrived sat down heavily, his sallow face
drawn, with beads of sweat on his forehead, trying to recover
himself.

"I'm afraid you're ill," said Philip.

"It's of no consequence."

But Philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour
asked whether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till
he was better.

"No," said the old man, in his even low voice. "I prefer to go
on while I am able."

Philip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference to
money, reddened.

"But it won't make any difference to you," he said. "I'll pay
for the lessons just the same. If you wouldn't mind I'd like to
give you the money for next week in advance."

Monsieur Ducroz charged eighteen pence an hour. Philip took a
tenmark piece out of his pocket and shyly put it on the table.
He could not bring himself to offer it as if the old man were a
beggar.

"In that case I think I won't come again till I'm better." He
took the coin and, without anything more than the elaborate bow
with which he always took his leave, went out.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_."

Philip was vaguely disappointed. Thinking he had done a generous
thing, he had expected that Monsieur Ducroz would overwhelm him
with expressions of gratitude. He was taken aback to find that
the old teacher accepted the present as though it were his due.
He was so young, he did not realise how much less is the sense
of obligation in those who receive favours than in those who
grant them. Monsieur Ducroz appeared again five or six days
later. He tottered a little more and was very weak, but seemed
to have overcome the severity of the attack. He was no more
communicative than he had been before. He remained mysterious,
aloof, and dirty. He made no reference to his illness till after
the lesson: and then, just as he was leaving, at the door, which
he held open, he paused. He hesitated, as though to speak were
difficult.

"If it hadn't been for the money you gave me I should have
starved. It was all I had to live on."

He made his solemn, obsequious bow, and went out. Philip felt a
little lump in his throat. He seemed to realise in a fashion the
hopeless bitterness of the old man's struggle, and how hard life
was for him when to himself it was so pleasant.


CHAPTER XXVI

PHILIP had spent three months in Heidelberg when one morning the
Frau Professor told him that an Englishman named Hayward was
coming to stay in the house, and the same evening at supper he
saw a new face. For some days the family had lived in a state of
excitement. First, as the result of heaven knows what scheming,
by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats, the parents of the
young Englishman to whom Fraulein Thekla was engaged had invited
her to visit them in England, and she had set off with an album
of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle
of letters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised
himself. A week later Fraulein Hedwig with radiant smiles
announced that the lieutenant of her affections was coming to
Heidelberg with his father and mother. Exhausted by the
importunity of their son and touched by the dowry which Fraulein
Hedwig's father offered, the lieutenant's parents had consented
to pass through Heidelberg to make the young woman's
acquaintance. The interview was satisfactory and Fraulein Hedwig
had the satisfaction of showing her lover in the Stadtgarten to
the whole of Frau Professor Erlin's household. The silent old
ladies who sat at the top of the table near the Frau Professor
were in a flutter, and when Fraulein Hedwig said she was to go
home at once for the formal engagement to take place, the Frau
Professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a
_Maibowle_. Professor Erlin prided himself on his skill in
preparing this mild intoxicant, and after supper the large bowl
of hock and soda, with scented herbs floating in it and wild
strawberries, was placed with solemnity on the round table in
the drawing-room. Fraulein Anna teased Philip about the
departure of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and
rather melancholy. Fraulein Hedwig sang several songs, Fraulein
Anna played the Wedding March, and the Professor sang _Die
Wacht am Rhein_. Amid all this jollification Philip paid little
attention to the new arrival. They had sat opposite one another
at supper, but Philip was chattering busily with Fraulein
Hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no German, had eaten his food
in silence. Philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had
on that account taken a sudden dislike to him. He was a man of
twenty-six, very fair, with long, wavy hair through which he
passed his hand frequently with a careless gesture. His eyes
were large and blue, but the blue was very pale, and they looked
rather tired already. He was clean-shaven, and his mouth,
notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. Fraulein Anna
took an interest in physiognomy, and she made Philip notice
afterwards how finely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the
lower part of his face. The head, she remarked, was the head of
a thinker, but the jaw lacked character. Fraulein Anna,
foredoomed to a spinster's life, with her high cheek-bones and
large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character. While
they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others,
watching the noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly
supercilious expression. He was tall and slim. He held himself
with a deliberate grace. Weeks, one of the American students,
seeing him alone, went up and began to talk to him. The pair
were oddly contrasted: the American very neat in his black coat
and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something
of ecclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the
Englishman in his loose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of
gesture.

Philip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. They found
themselves alone on the balcony of the drawing-room before
dinner. Hayward addressed him.

"You're English, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Is the food always as bad it was last night?"

"It's always about the same."

"Beastly, isn't it?"

"Beastly."

Philip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact
had eaten it in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment,
but he did not want to show himself a person of so little
discrimination as to think a dinner good which another thought
execrable.

Fraulein Thekla's visit to England made it necessary for her
sister to do more in the house, and she could not often spare
the time for long walks; and Fraulein Cacilie, with her long
plait of fair hair and her little snub-nosed face, had of late
shown a certain disinclination for society. Fraulein Hedwig was
gone, and Weeks, the American who generally accompanied them on
their rambles, had set out for a tour of South Germany. Philip
was left a good deal to himself. Hayward sought his
acquaintance; but Philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness
or from some atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he
always disliked people on first acquaintance; and it was not
till he became used to them that he got over his first
impression. It made him difficult of access. He received
Hayward's advances very shyly, and when Hayward asked him one
day to go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think
of a civil excuse. He made his usual apology, angry with himself
for the flushing cheeks he could not control, and trying to
carry it off with a laugh.

"I'm afraid I can't walk very fast."

"Good heavens, I don't walk for a wager. I prefer to stroll.
Don't you remember the chapter in Marius where Pater talks of
the gentle exercise of walking as the best incentive to
conversation?"

Philip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever
things to say, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say
them had passed; but Hayward was communicative; anyone more
experienced than Philip might have thought he liked to hear
himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressed Philip. He
could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who
faintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as
almost sacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with
the contemptuous word pot-hunters all those who devoted
themselves to its various forms; and Philip did not realise that
he was merely putting up in its stead the other fetish of
culture.

They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that
overlooked the town. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant
Neckar with a comfortable friendliness. The smoke from the
chimneys hung over it, a pale blue haze; and the tall roofs, the
spires of the churches, gave it a pleasantly medieval air. There
was a homeliness in it which warmed the heart. Hayward talked of
_Richard Feverel_ and _Madame Bovary_, of Verlaine, Dante,
and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald's translation of
Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward repeated
it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and
that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the
time they reached home Philip's distrust of Hayward was changed
to enthusiastic admiration.

They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and
Philip learned presently something of Hayward's circumstances.
He was the son of a country judge, on whose death some time
before he had inherited three hundred a year. His record at
Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he went to Cambridge the
Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to express his
satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared
himself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most
intellectual circles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and
turned up his well-shaped nose at Tennyson; he knew all the
details of Shelley's treatment of Harriet; he dabbled in the
history of art (on the walls of his rooms were reproductions of
pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli); and he
wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character.
His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent
gifts, and he listened to them willingly when they prophesied
his future eminence. In course of time he became an authority on
art and literature. He came under the influence of Newman's
_Apologia_; the picturesqueness of the Roman Catholic faith
appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the feat
of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who
read Macaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' When he
only got a pass degree his friends were astonished; but he
shrugged his shoulders and delicately insinuated that he was not
the dupe of examiners. He made one feel that a first class was
ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of the vivas with
tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was asking
him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly
he noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque
and ridiculous; so he withdrew his mind and thought of the
gothic beauty of the Chapel at King's. But he had spent some
delightful days at Cambridge; he had given better dinners than
anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had been often
memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram:

"_They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead_."

And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote
about the examiner and his boots, he laughed.

"Of course it was folly," he said, "but it was a folly in which
there was something fine."

Philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent.

Then Hayward went to London to read for the Bar. He had charming
rooms in Clement's Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to
make them look like his old rooms at the Hall. He had ambitions
that were vaguely political, he described himself as a Whig, and
he was put up for a club which was of Liberal but gentlemanly
flavour. His idea was to practise at the Bar (he chose the
Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant
constituency as soon as the various promises made him were
carried out; meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and
made acquaintance with a small number of charming people who
admired the things that he admired. He joined a dining-club of
which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and The Beautiful. He
formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older than
himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every
afternoon he drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles,
and talked of George Meredith and Walter Pater. It was notorious
that any fool could pass the examinations of the Bar Council,
and he pursued his studies in a dilatory fashion. When he was
ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a personal affront.
At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told him that her
husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man,
though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not
understand a young man's frequent visits. Hayward felt that life
was full of ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of
affronting again the cynicism of examiners, and he saw something
rather splendid in kicking away the ball which lay at his feet.
He was also a good deal in debt: it was difficult to live in
London like a gentleman on three hundred a year; and his heart
yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had so
magically described. He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar
bustle of the Bar, for he had discovered that it was not
sufficient to put your name on a door to get briefs; and modern
politics seemed to lack nobility. He felt himself a poet. He
disposed of his rooms in Clement's Inn and went to Italy. He had
spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now was
passing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might
read Goethe in the original.

Hayward had one gift which was very precious. He had a real
feeling for literature, and he could impart his own passion with
an admirable fluency. He could throw himself into sympathy with
a writer and see all that was best in him, and then he could
talk about him with understanding. Philip had read a great deal,
but he had read without discrimination everything that he
happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to
meet someone who could guide his taste. He borrowed books from
the small lending library which the town possessed and began
reading all the wonderful things that Hayward spoke of. He did
not read always with enjoyment but invariably with perseverance.
He was eager for self-improvement. He felt himself very ignorant
and very humble. By the end of August, when Weeks returned from
South Germany, Philip was completely under Hayward's influence.
Hayward did not like Weeks. He deplored the American's black
coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spoke with a scornful
shrug of his New England conscience. Philip listened
complacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way
to be kind to him, but when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable
remarks about Hayward he lost his temper.

"Your new friend looks like a poet," said Weeks, with a thin
smile on his careworn, bitter mouth.

"He is a poet."

"Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pretty fair
specimen of a waster."

"Well, we're not in America," said Philip frigidly.

"How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in
pensions and write poetry."

"You don't know him," said Philip hotly.

"Oh yes, I do: I've met a hundred and forty-seven of him."

Weeks' eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand
American humour, pursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to
Philip seemed a man of middle age, but he was in point of fact
little more than thirty. He had a long, thin body and the
scholar's stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had pale scanty
hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose, and
the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth
look. He was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man,
without passion; but he had a curious vein of frivolity which
disconcerted the serious-minded among whom his instincts
naturally threw him. He was studying theology in Heidelberg, but
the other theological students of his own nationality looked
upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox, which
frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their
disapproval.

"How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?" asked
Philip seriously.

"I've met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I've met him in
pensions in Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in
Perugia and Assisi. He stands by the dozen before the
Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all the benches of the
Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too much
wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He
always admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and
one of these days he's going to write a great work. Think of it,
there are a hundred and forty-seven great works reposing in the
bosoms of a hundred and forty-seven great men, and the tragic
thing is that not one of those hundred and forty-seven great
works will ever be written. And yet the world goes on."

Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at
the end of his long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that
the American was making fun of him.

"You do talk rot," he said crossly.


CHAPTER XXVII

WEEKS had two little rooms at the back of Frau Erlin's house,
and one of them, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough
for him to invite people to sit in. After supper, urged perhaps
by the impish humour which was the despair of his friends in
Cambridge, Mass., he often asked Philip and Hayward to come in
for a chat. He received them with elaborate courtesy and
insisted on their sitting in the only two comfortable chairs in
the room. Though he did not drink himself, with a politeness of
which Philip recognised the irony, he put a couple of bottles of
beer at Hayward's elbow, and he insisted on lighting matches
whenever in the heat of argument Hayward's pipe went out. At the
beginning of their acquaintance Hayward, as a member of so
celebrated a university, had adopted a patronising attitude
towards Weeks, who was a graduate of Harvard; and when by chance
the conversation turned upon the Greek tragedians, a subject
upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he had assumed
the air that it was his part to give information rather than to
exchange ideas. Weeks had listened politely, with smiling
modesty, till Hayward finished; then he asked one or two
insidious questions, so innocent in appearance that Hayward, not
seeing into what a quandary they led him, answered blandly;
Weeks made a courteous objection, then a correction of fact,
after that a quotation from some little known Latin commentator,
then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was
disclosed that he was a scholar. With smiling ease,
apologetically, Weeks tore to pieces all that Hayward had said;
with elaborate civility he displayed the superficiality of his
attainments. He mocked him with gentle irony. Philip could not
help seeing that Hayward looked a perfect fool, and Hayward had
not the sense to hold his tongue; in his irritation, his
self-assurance undaunted, he attempted to argue: he made wild
statements and Weeks amicably corrected them; he reasoned
falsely and Weeks proved that he was absurd: Weeks confessed
that he had taught Greek Literature at Harvard. Hayward gave a
laugh of scorn.

"I might have known it. Of course you read Greek like a
schoolmaster," he said. "I read it like a poet."

"And do you find it more poetic when you don't quite know what
it means? I thought it was only in revealed religion that a
mistranslation improved the sense."

At last, having finished the beer, Hayward left Weeks' room hot
and dishevelled; with an angry gesture he said to Philip:

"Of course the man's a pedant. He has no real feeling for
beauty. Accuracy is the virtue of clerks. It's the spirit of the
Greeks that we aim at. Weeks is like that fellow who went to
hear Rubenstein and complained that he played false notes. False
notes! What did they matter when he played divinely?"

Philip, not knowing how many incompetent people have found
solace in these false notes, was much impressed.

Hayward could never resist the opportunity which Weeks offered
him of regaining ground lost on a previous occasion, and Weeks
was able with the greatest ease to draw him into a discussion.
Though he could not help seeing how small his attainments were
beside the American's, his British pertinacity, his wounded
vanity (perhaps they are the same thing), would not allow him to
give up the struggle. Hayward seemed to take a delight in
displaying his ignorance, self-satisfaction, and
wrongheadedness. Whenever Hayward said something which was
illogical, Weeks in a few words would show the falseness of his
reasoning, pause for a moment to enjoy his triumph, and then
hurry on to another subject as though Christian charity impelled
him to spare the vanquished foe. Philip tried sometimes to put
in something to help his friend, and Weeks gently crushed him,
but so kindly, differently from the way in which he answered
Hayward, that even Philip, outrageously sensitive, could not
feel hurt. Now and then, losing his calm as he felt himself more
and more foolish, Hayward became abusive, and only the
American's smiling politeness prevented the argument from
degenerating into a quarrel. On these occasions when Hayward
left Weeks' room he muttered angrily:

"Damned Yankee!"

That settled it. It was a perfect answer to an argument which
had seemed unanswerable.

Though they began by discussing all manner of subjects in Weeks'
little room eventually the conversation always turned to
religion: the theological student took a professional interest
in it, and Hayward welcomed a subject in which hard facts need
not disconcert him; when feeling is the gauge you can snap your
angers at logic, and when your logic is weak that is very
agreeable. Hayward found it difficult to explain his beliefs to
Philip without a great flow of words; but it was clear (and this
fell in with Philip's idea of the natural order of things), that
he had been brought up in the church by law established. Though
he had now given up all idea of becoming a Roman Catholic, he
still looked upon that communion with sympathy. He had much to
say in its praise, and he compared favourably its gorgeous
ceremonies with the simple services of the Church of England. He
gave Philip Newman's _Apologia_ to read, and Philip, finding
it very dull, nevertheless read it to the end.

"Read it for its style, not for its matter," said Hayward.

He talked enthusiastically of the music at the Oratory, and said
charming things about the connection between incense and the
devotional spirit. Weeks listened to him with his frigid smile.

"You think it proves the truth of Roman Catholicism that John
Henry Newman wrote good English and that Cardinal Manning has a
picturesque appearance?"

Hayward hinted that he had gone through much trouble with his
soul. For a year he had swum in a sea of darkness. He passed his
fingers through his fair, waving hair and told them that he
would not for five hundred pounds endure again those agonies of
mind. Fortunately he had reached calm waters at last.

"But what do you believe?" asked Philip, who was never satisfied
with vague statements.

"I believe in the Whole, the Good, and the Beautiful."

Hayward with his loose large limbs and the fine carriage of his
head looked very handsome when he said this, and he said it with
an air.

"Is that how you would describe your religion in a census
paper?" asked Weeks, in mild tones.

"I hate the rigid definition: it's so ugly, so obvious. If you
like I will say that I believe in the church of the Duke of
Wellington and Mr. Gladstone."

"That's the Church of England," said Philip.

"Oh wise young man!" retorted Hayward, with a smile which made
Philip blush, for he felt that in putting into plain words what
the other had expressed in a paraphrase, he had been guilty of
vulgarity. "I belong to the Church of England. But I love the
gold and the silk which clothe the priest of Rome, and his
celibacy, and the confessional, and purgatory: and in the
darkness of an Italian cathedral, incense-laden and mysterious,
I believe with all my heart in the miracle of the Mass. In
Venice I have seen a fisherwoman come in, barefoot, throw down
her basket of fish by her side, fall on her knees, and pray to
the Madonna; and that I felt was the real faith, and I prayed
and believed with her. But I believe also in Aphrodite and
Apollo and the Great God Pan."

He had a charming voice, and he chose his words as he spoke; he
uttered them almost rhythmically. He would have gone on, but
Weeks opened a second bottle of beer.

"Let me give you something to drink."

Hayward turned to Philip with the slightly condescending gesture
which so impressed the youth.

"Now are you satisfied?" he asked.

Philip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was.

"I'm disappointed that you didn't add a little Buddhism," said
Weeks. "And I confess I have a sort of sympathy for Mahomet; I
regret that you should have left him out in the cold."

Hayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with himself that
evening, and the ring of his sentences still sounded pleasant in
his ears. He emptied his glass.

"I didn't expect you to understand me," he answered. "With your
cold American intelligence you can only adopt the critical
attitude. Emerson and all that sort of thing. But what is
criticism? Criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy,
but not everyone can build up. You are a pedant, my dear fellow.
The important thing is to construct: I am constructive; I am a
poet."

Weeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same time to
be quite grave and yet to be smiling brightly.

"I think, if you don't mind my saying so, you're a little
drunk."

"Nothing to speak of," answered Hayward cheerfully. "And not
enough for me to be unable to overwhelm you in argument. But
come, I have unbosomed my soul; now tell us what your religion
is."

Weeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a sparrow
on a perch.

"I've been trying to find that out for years. I think I'm a
Unitarian."

"But that's a dissenter," said Philip.

He could not imagine why they both burst into laughter, Hayward
uproariously, and Weeks with a funny chuckle.

"And in England dissenters aren't gentlemen, are they?" asked
Weeks.

"Well, if you ask me point-blank, they're not," replied Philip
rather crossly.

He hated being laughed at, and they laughed again.

"And will you tell me what a gentleman is?" asked Weeks.

"Oh, I don't know; everyone knows what it is."

"Are you a gentleman?"

No doubt had ever crossed Philip's mind on the subject, but he
knew it was not a thing to state of oneself.

"If a man tells you he's a gentleman you can bet your boots he
isn't," he retorted.

"Am I a gentleman?"

Philip's truthfulness made it difficult for him to answer, but
he was naturally polite.

"Oh, well, you're different," he said. "You're American, aren't
you?"

"I suppose we may take it that only Englishmen are gentlemen,"
said Weeks gravely.

Philip did not contradict him.

"Couldn't you give me a few more particulars?" asked Weeks.

Philip reddened, but, growing angry, did not care if he made
himself ridiculous.

"I can give you plenty" He remembered his uncle's saying that it
took three generations to make a gentleman: it was a companion
proverb to the silk purse and the sow's ear. "First of all he's
the son of a gentleman, and he's been to a public school, and to
Oxford or Cambridge."

"Edinburgh wouldn't do, I suppose?" asked Weeks.

"And he talks English like a gentleman, and he wears the right
sort of things, and if he's a gentleman he can always tell if
another chap's a gentleman."

It seemed rather lame to Philip as he went on, but there it was:
that was what he meant by the word, and everyone he had ever
known had meant that too.

"It is evident to me that I am not a gentleman," said Weeks. "I
don't see why you should have been so surprised because I was a
dissenter."

"I don't quite know what a Unitarian is," said Philip.

Weeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you almost
expected him to twitter.

"A Unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost everything
that anybody else believes, and he has a very lively sustaining
faith in he doesn't quite know what."

"I don't see why you should make fun of me," said Philip. "I
really want to know."

"My dear friend, I'm not making fun of you. I have arrived at
that definition after years of great labour and the most
anxious, nerve-racking study."

When Philip and Hayward got up to go, Weeks handed Philip a
little book in a paper cover.

"I suppose you can read French pretty well by now. I wonder if
this would amuse you."

Philip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the title. It
was Renan's _Vie de Jesus_.


CHAPTER XXVIII

IT OCCURRED neither to Hayward nor to Weeks that the
conversations which helped them to pass an idle evening were
being turned over afterwards in Philip's active brain. It had
never struck him before that religion was a matter upon which
discussion was possible. To him it meant the Church of England,
and not to believe in its tenets was a sign of wilfulness which
could not fail of punishment here or hereafter. There was some
doubt in his mind about the chastisement of unbelievers. It was
possible that a merciful judge, reserving the flames of hell for
the heathen--Mahommedans, Buddhists, and the rest--would spare
Dissenters and Roman Catholics (though at the cost of how much
humiliation when they were made to realise their error!), and it
was also possible that He would be pitiful to those who had had
no chance of learning the truth,--this was reasonable enough,
though such were the activities of the Missionary Society there
could not be many in this condition--but if the chance had been
theirs and they had neglected it (in which category were
obviously Roman Catholics and Dissenters), the punishment was
sure and merited. It was clear that the miscreant was in a
parlous state. Perhaps Philip had not been taught it in so many
words, but certainly the impression had been given him that only
members of the Church of England had any real hope of eternal
happiness.

One of the things that Philip had heard definitely stated was
that the unbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but Weeks,
though he believed in hardly anything that Philip believed, led
a life of Christian purity. Philip had received little kindness
in his life, and he was touched by the American's desire to help
him: once when a cold kept him in bed for three days, Weeks
nursed him like a mother. There was neither vice nor wickedness
in him, but only sincerity and loving-kindness. It was evidently
possible to be virtuous and unbelieving.

Also Philip had been given to understand that people adhered to
other faiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their
hearts they knew they were false; they deliberately sought to
deceive others. Now, for the sake of his German he had been
accustomed on Sunday mornings to attend the Lutheran service,
but when Hayward arrived he began instead to go with him to
Mass. He noticed that, whereas the Protestant church was nearly
empty and the congregation had a listless air, the Jesuit on the
other hand was crowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with
all their hearts. They had not the look of hypocrites. He was
surprised at the contrast; for he knew of course that the
Lutherans, whose faith was closer to that of the Church of
England, on that account were nearer the truth than the Roman
Catholics. Most of the men--it was largely a masculine
congregation--were South Germans; and he could not help saying
to himself that if he had been born in South Germany he would
certainly have been a Roman Catholic. He might just as well have
been born in a Roman Catholic country as in England; and in
England as well in a Wesleyan, Baptist, or Methodist family as
in one that fortunately belonged to the church by law
established. He was a little breathless at the danger he had
run. Philip was on friendly terms with the little Chinaman who
sat at table with him twice each day. His name was Sung. He was
always smiling, affable, and polite. It seemed strange that he
should frizzle in hell merely because he was a Chinaman; but if
salvation was possible whatever a man's faith was, there did not
seem to be any particular advantage in belonging to the Church
of England.

Philip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded
Weeks. He had to be careful, for he was very sensitive to
ridicule; and the acidulous humour with which the American
treated the Church of England disconcerted him. Weeks only
puzzled him more. He made Philip acknowledge that those South
Germans whom he saw in the Jesuit church were every bit as
firmly convinced of the truth of Roman Catholicism as he was of
that of the Church of England, and from that he led him to admit
that the Mahommedan and the Buddhist were convinced also of the
truth of their respective religions. It looked as though knowing
that you were right meant nothing; they all knew they were
right. Weeks had no intention of undermining the boy's faith,
but he was deeply interested in religion, and found it an
absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own views
accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in
almost everything that other people believed. Once Philip asked
him a question, which he had heard his uncle put when the
conversation at the vicarage had fallen upon some mildly
rationalistic work which was then exciting discussion in the
newspapers.

"But why should you be right and all those fellows like St.
Anselm and St. Augustine be wrong?"

"You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you
have grave doubts whether I am either?" asked Weeks.

"Yes," answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his
question seemed impertinent.

"St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun
turned round it."

"I don't know what that proves."

"Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your
saints lived in an age of faith, when it was practically
impossible to disbelieve what to us is positively incredible."

"Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?"

"I don't."

Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said:

"I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't
be just as wrong as what they believed in the past."

"Neither do I."

"Then how can you believe anything at all?"

"I don't know."

Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward's religion.

"Men have always formed gods in their own image," said Weeks.
"He believes in the picturesque."

Philip paused for a little while, then he said:

"I don't see why one should believe in God at all."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that
he had ceased to do so. It took his breath away like a plunge
into cold water. He looked at Weeks with startled eyes. Suddenly
he felt afraid. He left Weeks as quickly as he could. He wanted
to be alone. It was the most startling experience that he had
ever had. He tried to think it all out; it was very exciting,
since his whole life seemed concerned (he thought his decision
on this matter must profoundly affect its course) and a mistake
might lead to eternal damnation; but the more he reflected the
more convinced he was; and though during the next few weeks he
read books, aids to scepticism, with eager interest it was only
to confirm him in what he felt instinctively. The fact was that
he had ceased to believe not for this reason or the other, but
because he had not the religious temperament. Faith had been
forced upon him from the outside. It was a matter of environment
and example. A new environment and a new example gave him the
opportunity to find himself. He put off the faith of his
childhood quite simply, like a cloak that he no longer needed.
At first life seemed strange and lonely without the belief
which, though he never realised it, had been an unfailing
support. He felt like a man who has leaned on a stick and finds
himself forced suddenly to walk without assistance. It really
seemed as though the days were colder and the nights more
solitary. But he was upheld by the excitement; it seemed to make
life a more thrilling adventure; and in a little while the stick
which he had thrown aside, the cloak which had fallen from his
shoulders, seemed an intolerable burden of which he had been
eased. The religious exercises which for so many years had been
forced upon him were part and parcel of religion to him. He
thought of the collects and epistles which he had been made to
learn by heart, and the long services at the Cathedral through
which he had sat when every limb itched with the desire for
movement; and he remembered those walks at night through muddy
roads to the parish church at Blackstable, and the coldness of
that bleak building; he sat with his feet like ice, his fingers
numb and heavy, and all around was the sickly odour of pomatum.
Oh, he had been so bored! His heart leaped when he saw he was
free from all that.

He was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so
easily, and, not knowing that he felt as he did on account of
the subtle workings of his inmost nature, he ascribed the
certainty he had reached to his own cleverness. He was unduly
pleased with himself. With youth's lack of sympathy for an
attitude other than its own he despised not a little Weeks and
Hayward because they were content with the vague emotion which
they called God and would not take the further step which to
himself seemed so obvious. One day he went alone up a certain
hill so that he might see a view which, he knew not why, filled
him always with wild exhilaration. It was autumn now, but often
the days were cloudless still, and then the sky seemed to glow
with a more splendid light: it was as though nature consciously
sought to put a fuller vehemence into the remaining days of fair
weather. He looked down upon the plain, a-quiver with the sun,
stretching vastly before him: in the distance were the roofs of
Mannheim and ever so far away the dimness of Worms. Here and
there a more piercing glitter was the Rhine. The tremendous
spaciousness of it was glowing with rich gold. Philip, as he
stood there, his heart beating with sheer joy, thought how the
tempter had stood with Jesus on a high mountain and shown him
the kingdoms of the earth. To Philip, intoxicated with the
beauty of the scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which
was spread before him, and he was eager to step down and enjoy
it. He was free from degrading fears and free from prejudice. He
could go his way without the intolerable dread of hell-fire.
Suddenly he realised that he had lost also that burden of
responsibility which made every action of his life a matter of
urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter
air. He was responsible only to himself for the things he did.
Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit,
unconsciously he thanked God that he no longer believed in Him.

Drunk with pride in his intelligence and in his fearlessness,
Philip entered deliberately upon a new life. But his loss of
faith made less difference in his behaviour than he expected.
Though he had thrown on one side the Christian dogmas it never
occurred to him to criticise the Christian ethics; he accepted
the Christian virtues, and indeed thought it fine to practise
them for their own sake, without a thought of reward or
punishment. There was small occasion for heroism in the Frau
Professor's house, but he was a little more exactly truthful
than he had been, and he forced himself to be more than commonly
attentive to the dull, elderly ladies who sometimes engaged him
in conversation. The gentle oath, the violent adjective, which
are typical of our language and which he had cultivated before
as a sign of manliness, he now elaborately eschewed.

Having settled the whole matter to his satisfaction he sought to
put it out of his mind, but that was more easily said than done;
and he could not prevent the regrets nor stifle the misgivings
which sometimes tormented him. He was so young and had so few
friends that immortality had no particular attractions for him,
and he was able without trouble to give up belief in it; but
there was one thing which made him wretched; he told himself
that he was unreasonable, he tried to laugh himself out of such
pathos; but the tears really came to his eyes when he thought
that he would never see again the beautiful mother whose love
for him had grown more precious as the years since her death
passed on. And sometimes, as though the influence of innumerable
ancestors, Godfearing and devout, were working in him
unconsciously, there seized him a panic fear that perhaps after
all it was all true, and there was, up there behind the blue
sky, a jealous God who would punish in everlasting flames the
atheist. At these times his reason could offer him no help, he
imagined the anguish of a physical torment which would last
endlessly, he felt quite sick with fear and burst into a violent
sweat. At last he would say to himself desperately:

"After all, it's not my fault. I can't force myself to believe.
If there is a God after all and he punishes me because I
honestly don't believe in Him I can't help it."


CHAPTER XXIX

WINTER set in. Weeks went to Berlin to attend the lectures of
Paulssen, and Hayward began to think of going South. The local
theatre opened its doors. Philip and Hayward went to it two or
three times a week with the praiseworthy intention of improving
their German, and Philip found it a more diverting manner of
perfecting himself in the language than listening to sermons.
They found themselves in the midst of a revival of the drama.
Several of Ibsen's plays were on the repertory for the winter;
Sudermann's _Die Ehre_ was then a new play, and on its
production in the quiet university town caused the greatest
excitement; it was extravagantly praised and bitterly attacked;
other dramatists followed with plays written under the modern
influence, and Philip witnessed a series of works in which the
vileness of mankind was displayed before him. He had never been
to a play in his life till then (poor touring companies
sometimes came to the Assembly Rooms at Blackstable, but the
Vicar, partly on account of his profession, partly because he
thought it would be vulgar, never went to see them) and the
passion of the stage seized him. He felt a thrill the moment he
got into the little, shabby, ill-lit theatre. Soon he came to
know the peculiarities of the small company, and by the casting
could tell at once what were the characteristics of the persons
in the drama; but this made no difference to him. To him it was
real life. It was a strange life, dark and tortured, in which
men and women showed to remorseless eyes the evil that was in
their hearts: a fair face concealed a depraved mind; the
virtuous used virtue as a mask to hide their secret vice, the
seeming-strong fainted within with their weakness; the honest
were corrupt, the chaste were lewd. You seemed to dwell in a
room where the night before an orgy had taken place: the windows
had not been opened in the morning; the air was foul with the
dregs of beer, and stale smoke, and flaring gas. There was no
laughter. At most you sniggered at the hypocrite or the fool:
the characters expressed themselves in cruel words that seemed
wrung out of their hearts by shame and anguish.

Philip was carried away by the sordid intensity of it. He seemed
to see the world again in another fashion, and this world too he
was anxious to know. After the play was over he went to a tavern
and sat in the bright warmth with Hayward to eat a sandwich and
drink a glass of beer. All round were little groups of students,
talking and laughing; and here and there was a family, father
and mother, a couple of sons and a girl; and sometimes the girl
said a sharp thing, and the father leaned back in his chair and
laughed, laughed heartily. It was very friendly and innocent.
There was a pleasant homeliness in the scene, but for this
Philip had no eyes. His thoughts ran on the play he had just
come from.

"You do feel it's life, don't you?" he said excitedly. "You
know, I don't think I can stay here much longer. I want to get
to London so that I can really begin. I want to have
experiences. I'm so tired of preparing for life: I want to live
it now."

Sometimes Hayward left Philip to go home by himself. He would
never exactly reply to Philip's eager questioning, but with a
merry, rather stupid laugh, hinted at a romantic amour; he
quoted a few lines of Rossetti, and once showed Philip a sonnet
in which passion and purple, pessimism and pathos, were packed
together on the subject of a young lady called Trude. Hayward
surrounded his sordid and vulgar little adventures with a glow
of poetry, and thought he touched hands with Pericles and
Pheidias because to describe the object of his attentions he
used the word hetaira instead of one of those, more blunt and
apt, provided by the English language. Philip in the daytime had
been led by curiosity to pass through the little street near the
old bridge, with its neat white houses and green shutters, in
which according to Hayward the Fraulein Trude lived; but the
women, with brutal faces and painted cheeks, who came out of
their doors and cried out to him, filled him with fear; and he
fled in horror from the rough hands that sought to detain him.
He yearned above all things for experience and felt himself
ridiculous because at his age he had not enjoyed that which all
fiction taught him was the most important thing in life; but he
had the unfortunate gift of seeing things as they were, and the
reality which was offered him differed too terribly from the
ideal of his dreams.

He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must
be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an
acceptance of reality. It is an illusion that youth is happy, an
illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are
wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have
been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact
with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they
were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by
the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their
elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of
forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must
discover for themselves that all they have read and all they
have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is
another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The
strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter
disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the
power within him which is stronger than himself. The
companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing for
Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only
through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he
had deceived himself into sincerity. He honestly mistook his
sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the
artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophic calm. His
mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw everything a
little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a
golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he
lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were
beautiful. He was an idealist.


CHAPTER XXX

PHILIP was restless and dissatisfied. Hayward's poetic allusions
troubled his imagination, and his soul yearned for romance. At
least that was how he put it to himself.

And it happened that an incident was taking place in Frau
Erlin's house which increased Philip's preoccupation with the
matter of sex. Two or three times on his walks among the hills
he had met Fraulein Cacilie wandering by herself. He had passed
her with a bow, and a few yards further on had seen the
Chinaman. He thought nothing of it; but one evening on his way
home, when night had already fallen, he passed two people
walking very close together. Hearing his footstep, they
separated quickly, and though he could not see well in the
darkness he was almost certain they were Cacilie and Herr Sung.
Their rapid movement apart suggested that they had been walking
arm in arm. Philip was puzzled and surprised. He had never paid
much attention to Fraulein Cacilie. She was a plain girl, with
a square face and blunt features. She could not have been more
than sixteen, since she still wore her long fair hair in a
plait. That evening at supper he looked at her curiously; and,
though of late she had talked little at meals, she addressed
him.

"Where did you go for your walk today, Herr Carey?" she asked.

"Oh, I walked up towards the Konigstuhl."

"I didn't go out," she volunteered. "I had a headache."

The Chinaman, who sat next to her, turned round.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I hope it's better now."

Fraulein Cacilie was evidently uneasy, for she spoke again to
Philip.

"Did you meet many people on the way?"

Philip could not help reddening when he told a downright lie.

"No. I don't think I saw a living soul."

He fancied that a look of relief passed across her eyes.

Soon, however, there could be no doubt that there was something
between the pair, and other people in the Frau Professor's house
saw them lurking in dark places. The elderly ladies who sat at
the head of the table began to discuss what was now a scandal.
The Frau Professor was angry and harassed. She had done her best
to see nothing. The winter was at hand, and it was not as easy
a matter then as in the summer to keep her house full. Herr Sung
was a good customer: he had two rooms on the ground floor, and
he drank a bottle of Moselle at each meal. The Frau Professor
charged him three marks a bottle and made a good profit. None of
her other guests drank wine, and some of them did not even drink
beer. Neither did she wish to lose Fraulein Cacilie, whose
parents were in business in South America and paid well for the
Frau Professor's motherly care; and she knew that if she wrote
to the girl's uncle, who lived in Berlin, he would immediately
take her away. The Frau Professor contented herself with giving
them both severe looks at table and, though she dared not be
rude to the Chinaman, got a certain satisfaction out of
incivility to Cacilie. But the three elderly ladies were not
content. Two were widows, and one, a Dutchwoman, was a spinster
of masculine appearance; they paid the smallest possible sum for
their pension, and gave a good deal of trouble, but they were
permanent and therefore had to be put up with. They went to the
Frau Professor and said that something must be done; it was
disgraceful, and the house was ceasing to be respectable. The
Frau Professor tried obstinacy, anger, tears, but the three old
ladies routed her, and with a sudden assumption of virtuous
indignation she said that she would put a stop to the whole
thing.

After luncheon she took Cacilie into her bed-room and began to
talk very seriously to her; but to her amazement the girl
adopted a brazen attitude; she proposed to go about as she
liked; and if she chose to walk with the Chinaman she could not
see it was anybody's business but her own. The Frau Professor
threatened to write to her uncle.

"Then Onkel Heinrich will put me in a family in Berlin for the
winter, and that will be much nicer for me. And Herr Sung will
come to Berlin too."

The Frau Professor began to cry. The tears rolled down her
coarse, red, fat cheeks; and Cacilie laughed at her.

"That will mean three rooms empty all through the winter," she
said.

Then the Frau Professor tried another plan. She appealed to
Fraulein Cacilie's better nature: she was kind, sensible,
tolerant; she treated her no longer as a child, but as a grown
woman. She said that it wouldn't be so dreadful, but a Chinaman,
with his yellow skin and flat nose, and his little pig's eyes!
That's what made it so horrible. It filled one with disgust to
think of it.

"_Bitte, bitte_," said Cacilie, with a rapid intake of the
breath.

"I won't listen to anything against him."

"But it's not serious?" gasped Frau Erlin.

"I love him. I love him. I love him."

"_Gott im Himmel!_"

The Frau Professor stared at her with horrified surprise; she
had thought it was no more than naughtiness on the child's part,
and innocent, folly. but the passion in her voice revealed
everything. Cacilie looked at her for a moment with flaming
eyes, and then with a shrug of her shoulders went out of the
room.

Frau Erlin kept the details of the interview to herself, and a
day or two later altered the arrangement of the table. She asked
Herr Sung if he would not come and sit at her end, and he with
his unfailing politeness accepted with alacrity. Cacilie took
the change indifferently. But as if the discovery that the
relations between them were known to the whole household made
them more shameless, they made no secret now of their walks
together, and every afternoon quite openly set out to wander
about the hills. It was plain that they did not care what was
said of them. At last even the placidity of Professor Erlin was
moved, and he insisted that his wife should speak to the
Chinaman. She took him aside in his turn and expostulated; he
was ruining the girl's reputation, he was doing harm to the
house, he must see how wrong and wicked his conduct was; but she
was met with smiling denials; Herr Sung did not know what she
was talking about, he was not paying any attention to Fraulein
Cacilie, he never walked with her; it was all untrue, every word
of it.

"_Ach_, Herr Sung, how can you say such things? You've been
seen again and again."

"No, you're mistaken. It's untrue."

He looked at her with an unceasing smile, which showed his even,
little white teeth. He was quite calm. He denied everything. He
denied with bland effrontery. At last the Frau Professor lost
her temper and said the girl had confessed she loved him. He was
not moved. He continued to smile.

"Nonsense! Nonsense! It's all untrue."

She could get nothing out of him. The weather grew very bad;
there was snow and frost, and then a thaw with a long succession
of cheerless days, on which walking was a poor amusement. One
evening when Philip had just finished his German lesson with the
Herr Professor and was standing for a moment in the
drawing-room, talking to Frau Erlin, Anna came quickly in.

"Mamma, where is Cacilie?" she said.

"I suppose she's in her room."

"There's no light in it."

The Frau Professor gave an exclamation, and she looked at her
daughter in dismay. The thought which was in Anna's head had
flashed across hers.

"Ring for Emil," she said hoarsely.

This was the stupid lout who waited at table and did most of the
housework. He came in.

"Emil, go down to Herr Sung's room and enter without knocking.
If anyone is there say you came in to see about the stove."

No sign of astonishment appeared on Emil's phlegmatic face.

He went slowly downstairs. The Frau Professor and Anna left the
door open and listened. Presently they heard Emil come up again,
and they called him.

"Was anyone there?" asked the Frau Professor.

"Yes, Herr Sung was there."

"Was he alone?"

The beginning of a cunning smile narrowed his mouth.

"No, Fraulein Cacilie was there."

"Oh, it's disgraceful," cried the Frau Professor.

Now he smiled broadly.

"Fraulein Cacilie is there every evening. She spends hours at a
time there."

Frau Professor began to wring her hands.

"Oh, how abominable! But why didn't you tell me?"

"It was no business of mine," he answered, slowly shrugging his
shoulders.

"I suppose they paid you well. Go away. Go."

He lurched clumsily to the door.

"They must go away, mamma," said Anna.

"And who is going to pay the rent? And the taxes are falling
due. It's all very well for you to say they must go away. If
they go away I can't pay the bills." She turned to Philip, with
tears streaming down her face. "_Ach_, Herr Carey, you will
not say what you have heard. If Fraulein Forster--" this was the
Dutch spinster--"if Fraulein Forster knew she would leave at
once. And if they all go we must close the house. I cannot
afford to keep it."

"Of course I won't say anything."

"If she stays, I will not speak to her," said Anna.

That evening at supper Fraulein Cacilie, redder than usual, with
a look of obstinacy on her face, took her place punctually; but
Herr Sung did not appear, and for a while Philip thought he was
going to shirk the ordeal. At last he came, very smiling, his
little eyes dancing with the apologies he made for his late
arrival. He insisted as usual on pouring out the Frau Professor
a glass of his Moselle, and he offered a glass to Fraulein
Forster. The room was very hot, for the stove had been alight
all day and the windows were seldom opened. Emil blundered
about, but succeeded somehow in serving everyone quickly and
with order. The three old ladies sat in silence, visibly
disapproving: the Frau Professor had scarcely recovered from her
tears; her husband was silent and oppressed. Conversation
languished. It seemed to Philip that there was something
dreadful in that gathering which he had sat with so often; they
looked different under the light of the two hanging lamps from
what they had ever looked before; he was vaguely uneasy. Once he
caught Cacilie's eye, and he thought she looked at him with
hatred and contempt. The room was stifling. It was as though the
beastly passion of that pair troubled them all; there was a
feeling of Oriental depravity; a faint savour of joss-sticks, a
mystery of hidden vices, seemed to make their breath heavy.
Philip could feel the beating of the arteries in his forehead.
He could not understand what strange emotion distracted him; he
seemed to feel something infinitely attractive, and yet he was
repelled and horrified.

For several days things went on. The air was sickly with the
unnatural passion which all felt about them, and the nerves of
the little household seemed to grow exasperated. Only Herr Sung
remained unaffected; he was no less smiling, affable, and polite
than he had been before: one could not tell whether his manner
was a triumph of civilisation or an expression of contempt on
the part of the Oriental for the vanquished West. Cacilie was
flaunting and cynical. At last even the Frau Professor could
bear the position no longer. Suddenly panic seized her; for
Professor Erlin with brutal frankness had suggested the possible
consequences of an intrigue which was now manifest to everyone,
and she saw her good name in Heidelberg and the repute of her
house ruined by a scandal which could not possibly be hidden.
For some reason, blinded perhaps by her interests, this
possibility had never occurred to her; and now, her wits muddled
by a terrible fear, she could hardly be prevented from turning
the girl out of the house at once. It was due to Anna's good
sense that a cautious letter was written to the uncle in Berlin
suggesting that Cacilie should be taken away.

But having made up her mind to lose the two lodgers, the Frau
Professor could not resist the satisfaction of giving rein to
the ill-temper she had curbed so long. She was free now to say
anything she liked to Cacilie.

"I have written to your uncle, Cacilie, to take you away. I
cannot have you in my house any longer."

Her little round eyes sparkled when she noticed the sudden
whiteness of the girl's face.

"You're shameless. Shameless," she went on.

She called her foul names.

"What did you say to my uncle Heinrich, Frau Professor?" the
girl asked, suddenly falling from her attitude of flaunting
independence.

"Oh, he'll tell you himself. I expect to get a letter from him
tomorrow."

Next day, in order to make the humiliation more public, at
supper she called down the table to Cacilie.

"I have had a letter from your uncle, Cacilie. You are to pack
your things tonight, and we will put you in the train tomorrow
morning. He will meet you himself in Berlin at the Central
Bahnhof."

"Very good, Frau Professor."

Herr Sung smiled in the Frau Professor's eyes, and
notwithstanding her protests insisted on pouring out a glass of
wine for her. The Frau Professor ate her supper with a good
appetite. But she had triumphed unwisely. Just before going to
bed she called the servant.

"Emil, if Fraulein Cacilie's box is ready you had better take it
downstairs tonight. The porter will fetch it before breakfast."

The servant went away and in a moment came back.

"Fraulein Cacilie is not in her room, and her bag has gone."

With a cry the Frau Professor hurried along: the box was on the
floor, strapped and locked; but there was no bag, and neither
hat nor cloak. The dressing-table was empty. Breathing heavily,
the Frau Professor ran downstairs to the Chinaman's rooms, she
had not moved so quickly for twenty years, and Emil called out
after her to beware she did not fall; she did not trouble to
knock, but burst in. The rooms were empty. The luggage had gone,
and the door into the garden, still open, showed how it had been
got away. In an envelope on the table were notes for the money
due on the month's board and an approximate sum for extras.
Groaning, suddenly overcome by her haste, the Frau Professor
sank obesely on to a sofa. There could be no doubt. The pair had
gone off together. Emil remained stolid and unmoved.


CHAPTER XXXI

HAYWARD, after saying for a month that he was going South next
day and delaying from week to week out of inability to make up
his mind to the bother of packing and the tedium of a journey,
had at last been driven off just before Christmas by the
preparations for that festival. He could not support the thought
of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh to think of
the season's aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid
the obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve.

Philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright
person and it irritated him that anybody should not know his own
mind. Though much under Hayward's influence, he would not grant
that indecision pointed to a charming sensitiveness; and he
resented the shadow of a sneer with which Hayward looked upon
his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was an admirable
letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his
letters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful
influences with which he came in contact, and he was able in his
letters from Rome to put a subtle fragrance of Italy. He thought
the city of the ancient Romans a little vulgar, finding
distinction only in the decadence of the Empire; but the Rome of
the Popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosen words,
quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. He wrote of
old church music and the Alban Hills, and of the languor of
incense and the charm of the streets by night, in the rain, when
the pavements shone and the light of the street lamps was
mysterious. Perhaps he repeated these admirable letters to
various friends. He did not know what a troubling effect they
had upon Philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum. With
the spring Hayward grew dithyrambic. He proposed that Philip
should come down to Italy. He was wasting his time at
Heidelberg. The Germans were gross and life there was common;
how could the soul come to her own in that prim landscape? In
Tuscany the spring was scattering flowers through the land, and
Philip was nineteen; let him come and they could wander through
the mountain towns of Umbria. Their names sang in Philip's
heart. And Cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to Italy. When
he thought of them Philip was seized with a restlessness he
could not account for. He cursed his fate because he had no
money to travel, and he knew his uncle would not send him more
than the fifteen pounds a month which had been agreed upon. He
had not managed his allowance very well. His pension and the
price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found
going about with Hayward expensive. Hayward had often suggested
excursions, a visit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when
Philip had come to the end of his month's money; and with the
folly of his age he had been unwilling to confess he could not
afford an extravagance.

Luckily Hayward's letters came seldom, and in the intervals
Philip settled down again to his industrious life. He had
matriculated at the university and attended one or two courses
of lectures. Kuno Fischer was then at the height of his fame and
during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly on
Schopenhauer. It was Philip's introduction to philosophy. He had
a practical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he
found an unexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical
disquisitions; they made him breathless; it was a little like
watching a tight-rope dancer doing perilous feats over an abyss;
but it was very exciting. The pessimism of the subject attracted
his youth; and he believed that the world he was about to enter
was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness. That made him none
the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course, Mrs. Carey,
acting as the correspondent for his guardian's views, suggested
that it was time for him to come back to England, he agreed with
enthusiasm. He must make up his mind now what he meant to do. If
he left Heidelberg at the end of July they could talk things
over during August, and it would be a good time to make
arrangements.

The date of his departure was settled, and Mrs. Carey wrote to
him again. She reminded him of Miss Wilkinson, through whose
kindness he had gone to Frau Erlin's house at Heidelberg, and
told him that she had arranged to spend a few weeks with them at
Blackstable. She would be crossing from Flushing on such and
such a day, and if he travelled at the same time he could look
after her and come on to Blackstable in her company. Philip's
shyness immediately made him write to say that he could not
leave till a day or two afterwards. He pictured himself looking
out for Miss Wilkinson, the embarrassment of going up to her and
asking if it were she (and he might so easily address the wrong
person and be snubbed), and then the difficulty of knowing
whether in the train he ought to talk to her or whether he could
ignore her and read his book.

At last he left Heidelberg. For three months he had been
thinking of nothing but the future; and he went without regret.
He never knew that he had been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave
him a copy of _Der Trompeter von Sackingen_ and in return he
presented her with a volume of William Morris. Very wisely
neither of them ever read the other's present.


CHAPTER XXXII

PHILIP was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. He had
never noticed before that they were quite old people. The Vicar
received him with his usual, not unamiable indifference. He was
a little stouter, a little balder, a little grayer. Philip saw
how insignificant he was. His face was weak and self-indulgent.
Aunt Louisa took him in her arms and kissed him; and tears of
happiness flowed down her cheeks. Philip was touched and
embarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared
for him.

"Oh, the time has seemed long since you've been away, Philip,"
she cried.

She stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes.

"You've grown. You're quite a man now."

There was a very small moustache on his upper lip. He had bought
a razor and now and then with infinite care shaved the down off
his smooth chin.

"We've been so lonely without you." And then shyly, with a
little break in her voice, she asked: "You are glad to come back
to your home, aren't you?"

"Yes, rather."

She was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she
put round his neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken
bones, and her faded face was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls
which she still wore in the fashion of her youth gave her a
queer, pathetic look; and her little withered body was like an
autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away by the first sharp
wind. Philip realised that they had done with life, these two
quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and
they were waiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death;
and he, in his vigour and his youth, thirsting for excitement
and adventure, was appalled at the waste. They had done nothing,
and when they went it would be just as if they had never been.
He felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved her suddenly
because she loved him.

Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till
the Careys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into
the room.

"This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip," said Mrs. Carey.

"The prodigal has returned," she said, holding out her hand. "I
have brought a rose for the prodigal's buttonhole."

With a gay smile she pinned to Philip's coat the flower she had
just picked in the garden. He blushed and felt foolish. He knew
that Miss Wilkinson was the daughter of his Uncle William's last
rector, and he had a wide acquaintance with the daughters of
clergymen. They wore ill-cut clothes and stout boots. They were
generally dressed in black, for in Philip's early years at
Blackstable homespuns had not reached East Anglia, and the
ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. Their hair was done
very untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen.
They considered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the
same whether they were old or young. They bore their religion
arrogantly. The closeness of their connection with the church
made them adopt a slightly dictatorial attitude to the rest of
mankind.

Miss Wilkinson was very different. She wore a white muslin gown
stamped with gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed,
high-heeled shoes, with open-work stockings. To Philip's
inexperience it seemed that she was wonderfully dressed; he did
not see that her frock was cheap and showy. Her hair was
elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of the
forehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as
though it could never be in the least disarranged. She had large
black eyes and her nose was slightly aquiline; in profile she
had somewhat the look of a bird of prey, but full face she was
prepossessing. She smiled a great deal, but her mouth was large
and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, which were big
and rather yellow. But what embarrassed Philip most was that she
was heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine
behaviour and did not think a lady ever powdered; but of course
Miss Wilkinson was a lady because she was a clergyman's
daughter, and a clergyman was a gentleman.

Philip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. She spoke
with a slight French accent; and he did not know why she should,
since she had been born and bred in the heart of England. He
thought her smile affected, and the coy sprightliness of her
manner irritated him. For two or three days he remained silent
and hostile, but Miss Wilkinson apparently did not notice it.
She was very affable. She addressed her conversation almost
exclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the
way she appealed constantly to his sane judgment. She made him
laugh too, and Philip could never resist people who amused him:
he had a gift now and then of saying neat things; and it was
pleasant to have an appreciative listener. Neither the Vicar nor
Mrs. Carey had a sense of humour, and they never laughed at
anything he said. As he grew used to Miss Wilkinson, and his
shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the
French accent picturesque; and at a garden party which the
doctor gave she was very much better dressed than anyone else.
She wore a blue foulard with large white spots, and Philip was
tickled at the sensation it caused.

"I'm certain they think you're no better than you should be," he
told her, laughing.

"It's the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy,"
she answered.

One day when Miss Wilkinson was in her room he asked Aunt Louisa
how old she was.

"Oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady's age; but she's
certainly too old for you to marry."

The Vicar gave his slow, obese smile.

"She's no chicken, Louisa," he said. "She was nearly grown up
when we were in Lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. She
wore a pigtail hanging down her back."

"She may not have been more than ten," said Philip.

"She was older than that," said Aunt Louisa.

"I think she was near twenty," said the Vicar.

"Oh no, William. Sixteen or seventeen at the outside."

"That would make her well over thirty," said Philip.

At that moment Miss Wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song
by Benjamin Goddard. She had put her hat on, for she and Philip
were going for a walk, and she held out her hand for him to
button her glove. He did it awkwardly. He felt embarrassed but
gallant. Conversation went easily between them now, and as they
strolled along they talked of all manner of things. She told
Philip about Berlin, and he told her of his year in Heidelberg.
As he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gained
a new interest: he described the people at Frau Erlin's house;
and to the conversations between Hayward and Weeks, which at the
time seemed so significant, he gave a little twist, so that they
looked absurd. He was flattered at Miss Wilkinson's laughter.

"I'm quite frightened of you," she said. "You're so sarcastic."

Then she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love
affairs at Heidelberg. Without thinking, he frankly answered
that he had not; but she refused to believe him.

"How secretive you are!" she said. "At your age is it likely?"

He blushed and laughed.

"You want to know too much," he said.

"Ah, I thought so," she laughed triumphantly. "Look at him
blushing."

He was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and
he changed the conversation so as to make her believe he had all
sorts of romantic things to conceal. He was angry with himself
that he had not. There had been no opportunity.

Miss Wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. She resented
having to earn her living and told Philip a long story of an
uncle of her mother's, who had been expected to leave her a
fortune but had married his cook and changed his will. She
hinted at the luxury of her home and compared her life in
Lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in,
with the mean dependence of her present state. Philip was a
little puzzled when he mentioned this afterwards to Aunt Louisa,
and she told him that when she knew the Wilkinsons they had
never had anything more than a pony and a dog-cart; Aunt Louisa
had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was married and had
children before Emily was born she could never have had much
hope of inheriting his fortune. Miss Wilkinson had little good
to say of Berlin, where she was now in a situation. She
complained of the vulgarity of German life, and compared it
bitterly with the brilliance of Paris, where she had spent a
number of years. She did not say how many. She had been
governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who
had married a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had
met many distinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their
names. Actors from the Comedie Francaise had come to the house
frequently, and Coquelin, sitting next her at dinner, had told
her he had never met a foreigner who spoke such perfect French.
Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given her a copy of
_Sappho_: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had
forgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less
and she would lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss
Wilkinson with a rippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What
a man, but what a writer! Hayward had talked of Maupassant, and
his reputation was not unknown to Philip.

"Did he make love to you?" he asked.

The words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked
them nevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and
was thrilled by her conversation, but he could not imagine
anyone making love to her.

"What a question!" she cried. "Poor Guy, he made love to every
woman he met. It was a habit that he could not break himself
of."

She sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the
past.

"He was a charming man," she murmured.

A greater experience than Philip's would have guessed from these
words the probabilities of the encounter: the distinguished
writer invited to luncheon _en famille_, the governess coming
in sedately with the two tall girls she was teaching; the
introduction:

"_Notre Miss Anglaise_."

"_Mademoiselle_."

And the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while
the distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess.

But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies.

"Do tell me all about him," he said excitedly.

"There's nothing to tell," she said truthfully, but in such a
manner as to convey that three volumes would scarcely have
contained the lurid facts. "You mustn't be curious."

She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the
Bois. There was grace in every street, and the trees in the
Champs Elysees had a distinction which trees had not elsewhere.
They were sitting on a stile now by the high-road, and Miss
Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the stately elms in front of
them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant, and the acting
was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the mother
of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes.

"Oh, what a misery to be poor!" she cried. "These beautiful
things, it's only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be
able to afford them! Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure.
Sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me: `Ah,
Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.' "

Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and
was proud of it.

"Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The
French, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important
the figure is."

Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed
now that Miss Wilkinson's ankles were thick and ungainly. He
withdrew his eyes quickly.

"You should go to France. Why don't you go to Paris for a year?
You would learn French, and it would--_deniaiser_ you."

"What is that?" asked Philip.

She laughed slyly.

"You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know
how to treat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a
man. They don't know how to make love. They can't even tell a
woman she is charming without looking foolish."

Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected
him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted
to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him;
and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of
himself to say them.

"Oh, I love Paris," sighed Miss Wilkinson. "But I had to go to
Berlin. I was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then
I could get nothing to do, and I had the chance of this post in
Berlin. They're relations of Madame Foyot, and I accepted. I had
a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on the _cinquieme_: it
wasn't at all respectable. You know about the Rue Breda--_ces
dames_, you know."

Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely
suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant.

"But I didn't care. _Je suis libre, n'est-ce pas_?" She was
very fond of speaking French, which indeed she spoke well. "Once
I had such a curious adventure there."

She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it.

"You wouldn't tell me yours in Heidelberg," she said.

"They were so unadventurous," he retorted.

"I don't know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of
things we talk about together."

"You don't imagine I shall tell her."

"Will you promise?"

When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had
a room on the floor above her--but she interrupted herself.

"Why don't you go in for art? You paint so prettily."

"Not well enough for that."

"That is for others to judge. _Je m'y connais_, and I believe
you have the making of a great artist."

"Can't you see Uncle William's face if I suddenly told him I
wanted to go to Paris and study art?"

"You're your own master, aren't you?"

"You're trying to put me off. Please go on with the story." Miss
Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had
passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no
particular attention. She saw that he had fine eyes, and he took
off his hat very politely. And one day she found a letter
slipped under her door. It was from him. He told her that he had
adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs for
her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did not
reply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day
there was another letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and
touching. When next she met him on the stairs she did not know
which way to look. And every day the letters came, and now he
begged her to see him. He said he would come in the evening,
_vers neuf heures_, and she did not know what to do. Of course it
was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never
open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling
of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had
forgotten to shut the door when she came in.

"_C'etait une fatalite_."

"And what happened then?" asked Philip.

"That is the end of the story," she replied, with a ripple of
laughter.

Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and
strange emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart.
He saw the dark staircase and the chance meetings, and he
admired the boldness of the letters--oh, he would never have
dared to do that--and then the silent, almost mysterious
entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance.

"What was he like?"

"Oh, he was handsome. _Charmant garcon_."

"Do you know him still?"

Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this.

"He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You're
heartless, all of you."

"I don't know about that," said Philip, not without
embarrassment.

"Let us go home," said Miss Wilkinson.


CHAPTER XXXIII

PHILIP could not get Miss Wilkinson's story out of his head. It
was clear enough what she meant even though she cut it short,
and he was a little shocked. That sort of thing was all very
well for married women, he had read enough French novels to know
that in France it was indeed the rule, but Miss Wilkinson was
English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman. Then it
struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first
nor the last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked
upon Miss Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone
should make love to her. In his ingenuousness he doubted her
story as little as he doubted what he read in books, and he was
angry that such wonderful things never happened to him. It was
humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her
of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to tell.
It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not
sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice;
women were full of intuition, he had read that, and she might
easily discover that he was fibbing. He blushed scarlet as he
thought of her laughing up her sleeve.

Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired
voice; but her songs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta
Holmes, were new to Philip; and together they spent many hours
at the piano. One day she wondered if he had a voice and
insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasant baritone
and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usual
bashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning
at a convenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour's
lesson. She had a natural gift for teaching, and it was clear
that she was an excellent governess. She had method and
firmness. Though her French accent was so much part of her that
it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner left her when
she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense. Her
voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she
suppressed inattention and corrected slovenliness. She knew what
she was about and put Philip to scales and exercises.

When the lesson was over she resumed without effort her
seductive smiles, her voice became again soft and winning, but
Philip could not so easily put away the pupil as she the
pedagogue; and this impression convicted with the feelings her
stories had aroused in him. He looked at her more narrowly. He
liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. In the
morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just
a little rough. He wished she would hide it, but the weather was
very warm just then and she wore blouses which were cut low. She
was very fond of white; in the morning it did not suit her. At
night she often looked very attractive, she put on a gown which
was almost a dinner dress, and she wore a chain of garnets round
her neck; the lace about her bosom and at her elbows gave her a
pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (at Blackstable no one
used anything but _Eau de Cologne_, and that only on Sundays
or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and
exotic. She really looked very young then.

Philip was much exercised over her age. He added twenty and
seventeen together, and could not bring them to a satisfactory
total. He asked Aunt Louisa more than once why she thought Miss
Wilkinson was thirty-seven: she didn't look more than thirty,
and everyone knew that foreigners aged more rapidly than English
women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad that she might
almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn't have
thought her more than twenty-six.

"She's more than that," said Aunt Louisa.

Philip did not believe in the accuracy of the Careys'
statements. All they distinctly remembered was that Miss
Wilkinson had not got her hair up the last time they saw her in
Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelve then: it was so
long ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They said it
was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was
just as likely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and
twelve were only twenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old,
was it? Cleopatra was forty-eight when Antony threw away the
world for her sake.

It was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and cloudless; but
the heat was tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there
was a pleasant exhilaration in the air, so that one was excited
and not oppressed by the August sunshine. There was a pond in
the garden in which a fountain played; water lilies grew in it
and gold fish sunned themselves on the surface. Philip and Miss
Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there after dinner and
lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses. They
talked and read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which
the Vicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a
disgusting habit, and used frequently to say that it was
disgraceful for anyone to grow a slave to a habit. He forgot
that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea.

One day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip _La Vie de Boheme_. She had
found it by accident when she was rummaging among the books in
the Vicar's study. It had been bought in a lot with something
Mr. Carey wanted and had remained undiscovered for ten years.

Philip began to read Murger's fascinating, ill-written, absurd
masterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. His soul danced
with joy at that picture of starvation which is so
good-humoured, of squalor which is so picturesque, of sordid
love which is so romantic, of bathos which is so moving.
Rodolphe and Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through
the gray streets of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one
attic, now in another, in their quaint costumes of Louis
Philippe, with their tears and their smiles, happy-go-lucky and
reckless. Who can resist them? It is only when you return to the
book with a sounder judgment that you find how gross their
pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utter
worthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay
procession. Philip was enraptured.

"Don't you wish you were going to Paris instead of London?"
asked Miss Wilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm.

"It's too late now even if I did," he answered.

During the fortnight he had been back from Germany there had
been much discussion between himself and his uncle about his
future. He had refused definitely to go to Oxford, and now that
there was no chance of his getting scholarships even Mr. Carey
came to the conclusion that he could not afford it. His entire
fortune had consisted of only two thousand pounds, and though it
had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, he had not been
able to live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. It
would be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could
live on at a university, for three years at Oxford which would
lead him no nearer to earning his living. He was anxious to go
straight to London. Mrs. Carey thought there were only four
professions for a gentleman, the Army, the Navy, the Law, and
the Church. She had added medicine because her brother-in-law
practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no one
ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out
of the question, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be
ordained. Only the law remained. The local doctor had suggested
that many gentlemen now went in for engineering, but Mrs. Carey
opposed the idea at once.

"I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade," she said.

"No, he must have a profession," answered the Vicar.

"Why not make him a doctor like his father?"

"I should hate it," said Philip.

Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question,
since he was not going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the
impression that a degree was still necessary for success in that
calling; and finally it was suggested that he should become
articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the family lawyer, Albert
Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of Blackstable for the
late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether he would take
Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a
vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the
profession was greatly overcrowded, and without capital or
connections a man had small chance of becoming more than a
managing clerk; he suggested, however, that Philip should become
a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his wife knew in
the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone
being a chartered accountant; but another letter from the
solicitor explained that the growth of modern businesses and the
increase of companies had led to the formation of many firms of
accountants to examine the books and put into the financial
affairs of their clients an order which old-fashioned methods
had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charter had been obtained,
and the profession was becoming every year more respectable,
lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whom Albert
Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy
for an articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three
hundred pounds. Half of this would be returned during the five
years the articles lasted in the form of salary. The prospect
was not exciting, but Philip felt that he must decide on
something, and the thought of living in London over-balanced the
slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wrote to ask
Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and
Mr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into
it who had been to public schools and a university; moreover, if
Philip disliked the work and after a year wished to leave,
Herbert Carter, for that was the accountant's name, would return
half the money paid for the articles. This settled it, and it
was arranged that Philip should start work on the fifteenth of
September.

"I have a full month before me," said Philip.

"And then you go to freedom and I to bondage," returned Miss
Wilkinson.

Her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving
Blackstable only a day or two before Philip.

"I wonder if we shall ever meet again," she said.

"I don't know why not."

"Oh, don't speak in that practical way. I never knew anyone so
unsentimental."

Philip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think
him a milksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite
pretty, and he was getting on for twenty; it was absurd that
they should talk of nothing but art and literature. He ought to
make love to her. They had talked a good deal of love. There was
the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then there was the painter
in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: he had asked her
to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so violently
that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again.
It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions
of that sort. She looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it
was hot that afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads
of sweat stood in a line on her upper lip. He called to mind
Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung. He had never thought of Cacilie
in an amorous way, she was exceedingly plain; but now, looking
back, the affair seemed very romantic. He had a chance of
romance too. Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that
added zest to a possible adventure. When he thought of it at
night in bed, or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a
book, he was thrilled by it; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it
seemed less picturesque.

At all events, after what she had told him, she would not be
surprised if he made love to her. He had a feeling that she must
think it odd of him to make no sign: perhaps it was only his
fancy, but once or twice in the last day or two he had imagined
that there was a suspicion of contempt in her eyes.

"A penny for your thoughts," said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him
with a smile.

"I'm not going to tell you," he answered.

He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He
wondered if she expected him to do it; but after all he didn't
see how he could without any preliminary business at all. She
would just think him mad, or she might slap his face; and
perhaps she would complain to his uncle. He wondered how Herr
Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie. It would be beastly if
she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell
the doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool.
Aunt Louisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven
if she was a day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he
would be exposed to; they would say she was old enough to be his
mother.

"Twopence for your thoughts," smiled Miss Wilkinson.

"I was thinking about you," he answered boldly.

That at all events committed him to nothing.

"What were you thinking?"

"Ah, now you want to know too much."

"Naughty boy!" said Miss Wilkinson.

There it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself
up she said something which reminded him of the governess. She
called him playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his
exercises to her satisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky.

"I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child."

"Are you cross?"

"Very."

"I didn't mean to."

She put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when
they shook hands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed
his hand, but this time there was no doubt about it.

He did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last
was his chance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to
take it; but it was a little ordinary, and he had expected more
glamour. He had read many descriptions of love, and he felt in
himself none of that uprush of emotion which novelists
described; he was not carried off his feet in wave upon wave of
passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had often pictured
to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some
lovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in
the rippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine
himself burying his face in Miss Wilkinson's hair, it always
struck him as a little sticky. All the same it would be very
satisfactory to have an intrigue, and he thrilled with the
legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest. He owed it to
himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss Miss
Wilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in
the dark, and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He
would kiss her that very evening. He swore an oath to that
effect.

He laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should
take a stroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they
sauntered side by side. Philip was very nervous. He did not know
why, but the conversation would not lead in the right direction;
he had decided that the first thing to do was to put his arm
round her waist; but he could not suddenly put his arm round her
waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to be held
next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of the
garden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They
sat on a bench, and he had really made up his mind that here was
his opportunity when Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were
earwigs and insisted on moving. They walked round the garden
once more, and Philip promised himself he would take the plunge
before they arrived at that bench again; but as they passed the
house, they saw Mrs. Carey standing at the door.

"Hadn't you young people better come in? I'm sure the night air
isn't good for you."

"Perhaps we had better go in," said Philip. "I don't want you to
catch cold."

He said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more
that night. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he
was furious with himself. He had been a perfect fool. He was
certain that Miss Wilkinson expected him to kiss her, otherwise
she wouldn't have come into the garden. She was always saying
that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women. Philip had read
French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would have seized
her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he
would have pressed his lips on her _nuque_. He did not know
why Frenchmen always kissed ladies on the _nuque_. He did not
himself see anything so very attractive in the nape of the neck.
Of course it was much easier for Frenchmen to do these things;
the language was such an aid; Philip could never help feeling
that to say passionate things in English sounded a little
absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of
Miss Wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly,
and now he was wretched; but he was determined not to give in,
he would never respect himself again if he did, and he made up
his mind. irrevocably that the next night he would kiss her
without fail.

Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first
thought was that they would not be able to go into the garden
that evening. He was in high spirits at breakfast. Miss
Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that she had a headache and
would remain in bed. She did not come down till tea-time, when
she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she was
quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After
prayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed
Mrs. Carey. Then she turned to Philip.

"Good gracious!" she cried. "I was just going to kiss you too."

"Why don't you?" he said.

She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his.

The following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the
garden was sweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to
the beach to bathe and when he came home ate a magnificent
dinner. They were having a tennis party at the vicarage in the
afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best dress. She
certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not
help noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife
and the doctor's married daughter. There were two roses in her
waistband. She sat in a garden chair by the side of the lawn,
holding a red parasol over herself, and the light on her face
was very becoming. Philip was fond of tennis. He served well and
as he ran clumsily played close to the net: notwithstanding his
club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a ball past
him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he lay
down at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and panting.

"Flannels suit you," she said. "You look very nice this
afternoon."

He blushed with delight.

"I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly
ravishing."

She smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes.

After supper he insisted that she should come out.

"Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?"

"It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out."

He was in high spirits.

"D'you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your account?"
said Miss Wilkinson, when they were sauntering through the
kitchen garden. "She says I mustn't flirt with you."

"Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed it."

"She was only joking."

"It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night."

"If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!"

"Was that all that prevented you?"

"I prefer to kiss people without witnesses."

"There are no witnesses now."

Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only
laughed a little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come
quite naturally. Philip was very proud of himself. He said he
would, and he had. It was the easiest thing in the world. He
wished he had done it before. He did it again.

"Oh, you mustn't," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because I like it," she laughed.


CHAPTER XXXIV

NEXT day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the
fountain, and their books; but they did not read. Miss Wilkinson
made herself comfortable and she opened the red sun-shade.
Philip was not at all shy now, but at first she would not let
him kiss her.

"It was very wrong of me last night," she said. "I couldn't
sleep, I felt I'd done so wrong."

"What nonsense!" he cried. "I'm sure you slept like a top."

"What do you think your uncle would say if he knew?"

"There's no reason why he should know."

He leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat.

"Why d'you want to kiss me?"

He knew he ought to reply: "Because I love you." But he could
not bring himself to say it.

"Why do you think?" he asked instead.

She looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with
the tips of her fingers.

"How smooth your face is," she murmured.

"I want shaving awfully," he said.

It was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic
speeches. He found that silence helped him much more than words.
He could look inexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson sighed.

"Do you like me at all?"

"Yes, awfully."

When he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. He pretended
to be much more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded
in playing a part which looked very well in his own eyes.

"I'm beginning to be rather frightened of you," said Miss
Wilkinson.

"You'll come out after supper, won't you?" he begged.

"Not unless you promise to behave yourself."

"I'll promise anything."

He was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating,
and at tea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss Wilkinson
looked at him nervously.

"You mustn't have those shining eyes," she said to him
afterwards. "What will your Aunt Louisa think?"

"I don't care what she thinks."

Miss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They had no
sooner finished supper than he said to her:

"Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a cigarette?"

"Why don't you let Miss Wilkinson rest?" said Mrs. Carey. "You
must remember she's not as young as you."

"Oh, I'd like to go out, Mrs. Carey," she said, rather acidly.

"After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while," said the
Vicar.

"Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes,"
said Miss Wilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind
them.

Philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung
his arms round her. She tried to push him away.

"You promised you'd be good, Philip."

"You didn't think I was going to keep a promise like that?"

"Not so near the house, Philip," she said. "Supposing someone
should come out suddenly?"

He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to
come, and this time Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He
kissed her passionately. It was one of the things that puzzled
him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and only
moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her hand
thrilled him. He said things that he would never have thought
himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said
them in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with
wonder and satisfaction.

"How beautifully you make love," she said.

That was what he thought himself.

"Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!" he
murmured passionately.

It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever
played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he
said. It was only that he exaggerated a little. He was
tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see
it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at last she
suggested going in.

"Oh, don't go yet," he cried.

"I must," she muttered. "I'm frightened."

He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then.

"I can't go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are
burning. I want the night-air. Good-night."

He held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. He
thought she stifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent! When, after
a decent interval during which he had been rather bored in the
dark garden by himself, he went in he found that Miss Wilkinson
had already gone to bed.

After that things were different between them. The next day and
the day after Philip showed himself an eager lover. He was
deliciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in
love with him: she told him so in English, and she told him so
in French. She paid him compliments. No one had ever informed
him before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual
mouth. He had never bothered much about his personal appearance,
but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the
glass with satisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to
feel the passion that seemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her
a good deal, for he found it easier to do that than to say the
things he instinctively felt she expected of him. It still made
him feel a fool to say he worshipped her. He wished there were
someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would willingly
have discussed minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said
things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished
Hayward had been there so that he could ask him what he thought
she meant, and what he had better do next. He could not make up
his mind whether he ought to rush things or let them take their
time. There were only three weeks more.

"I can't bear to think of that," she said. "It breaks my heart.
And then perhaps we shall never see one another again."

"If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so unkind to me,"
he whispered.

"Oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it is? Men are
always the same. They're never satisfied."

And when he pressed her, she said:

"But don't you see it's impossible. How can we here?"

He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have
anything to do with them.

"I daren't take the risk. It would be too dreadful if your aunt
found out."

A day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant.

"Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered
to stay at home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go
to church."

Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to
allow Mary Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the
opportunity of attending evensong.

Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the
change in his views on Christianity which had occurred in
Germany; they could not be expected to understand; and it seemed
less trouble to go to church quietly. But he only went in the
morning. He regarded this as a graceful concession to the
prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second time as an
adequate assertion of free thought.

When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a
moment, then shook her head.

"No, I won't," she said.

But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. "I don't think
I'll come to church this evening," she said suddenly. "I've
really got a dreadful headache."

Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some `drops'
which she was herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson
thanked her, and immediately after tea announced that she would
go to her room and lie down.

"Are you sure there's nothing you'll want?" asked Mrs. Carey
anxiously.

"Quite sure, thank you."

"Because, if there isn't, I think I'll go to church. I don't
often have the chance of going in the evening."

"Oh yes, do go."

"I shall be in," said Philip. "If Miss Wilkinson wants anything,
she can always call me."

"You'd better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that
if Miss Wilkinson rings, you'll hear."

"Certainly," said Philip.

So after six o'clock Philip was left alone in the house with
Miss Wilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with
all his heart that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too
late now; he must take the opportunity which he had made. What
would Miss Wilkinson think of him if he did not! He went into
the hall and listened. There was not a sound. He wondered if
Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps she had forgotten
his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up the stairs
as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they
creaked. He stood outside Miss Wilkinson's room and listened; he
put his hand on the knob of the door-handle. He waited. It
seemed to him that he waited for at least five minutes, trying
to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He would willingly
have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he knew
would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board
in a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you
got up there and stared down at the water your heart sank; and
the only thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming
down meekly by the steps you had climbed up. Philip screwed up
his courage. He turned the handle softly and walked in. He
seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.

Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back
to the door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it
open.

"Oh, it's you. What d'you want?"

She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her
petticoat. It was short and only came down to the top of her
boots; the upper part of it was black, of some shiny material,
and there was a red flounce. She wore a camisole of white calico
with short arms. She looked grotesque. Philip's heart sank as he
stared at her; she had never seemed so unattractive; but it was
too late now. He closed the door behind him and locked it.


CHAPTER XXXV

PHILIP woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but
when he stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid
through the Venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he
sighed with satisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He
began to think of Miss Wilkinson. She had asked him to call her
Emily, but, he knew not why, he could not; he always thought of
her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid him for so addressing her,
he avoided using her name at all. During his childhood he had
often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a naval
officer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to
call Miss Wilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that
would have suited her better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson,
and it seemed inseparable from his impression of her. He frowned
a little: somehow or other he saw her now at her worst; he could
not forget his dismay when she turned round and he saw her in
her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the slight
roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of
the neck. His triumph was short-lived. He reckoned out her age
again, and he did not see how she could be less than forty. It
made the affair ridiculous. She was plain and old. His quick
fancy showed her to him, wrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those
frocks which were too showy for her position and too young for
her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly that he never wanted
to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing her.
He was horrified with himself. Was that love?

He took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back
the moment of seeing her, and when at last he went into the
dining-room it was with a sinking heart. Prayers were over, and
they were sitting down at breakfast.

"Lazybones," Miss Wilkinson cried gaily.

He looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was
sitting with her back to the window. She was really quite nice.
He wondered why he had thought such things about her. His
self-satisfaction returned to him.

He was taken aback by the change in her. She told him in a voice
thrilling with emotion immediately after breakfast that she
loved him; and when a little later they went into the
drawing-room for his singing lesson and she sat down on the
music-stool she put up her face in the middle of a scale and
said:

"_Embrasse-moi_."

When he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was
slightly uncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that
he felt rather choked.

"_Ah, je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime_," she cried, with her
extravagantly French accent.

Philip wished she would speak English.

"I say, I don't know if it's struck you that the gardener's
quite likely to pass the window any minute."

"_Ah, je m'en fiche du jardinier. Je m'en refiche, et je m'en
contrefiche_."

Philip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not
know why it slightly irritated him.

At last he said:

"Well, I think I'll tootle along to the beach and have a dip."

"Oh, you're not going to leave me this morning--of all
mornings?" Philip did not quite know why he should not, but it
did not matter.

"Would you like me to stay?" he smiled.

"Oh, you darling! But no, go. Go. I want to think of you
mastering the salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad
ocean."

He got his hat and sauntered off.

"What rot women talk!" he thought to himself.

But he was pleased and happy and flattered. She was evidently
frightfully gone on him. As he limped along the high street of
Blackstable he looked with a tinge of superciliousness at the
people he passed. He knew a good many to nod to, and as he gave
them a smile of recognition he thought to himself, if they only
knew! He did want someone to know very badly. He thought he
would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. He
would talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French
governess, like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and
perverse: he would say she was French, because--well, she had
lived in France so long that she almost was, and besides it
would be shabby to give the whole thing away too exactly, don't
you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her first in
her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. He
made a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it
passion and magic, and the stars added poetry, and the old
vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite setting. There was
something Meredithian about it: it was not quite Lucy Feverel
and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was inexpressibly
charming. Philip's heart beat quickly. He was so delighted with
his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he
crawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He
thought of the object of his affections. She had the most
adorable little nose and large brown eyes--he would describe her
to Hayward--and masses of soft brown hair, the sort of hair it
was delicious to bury your face in, and a skin which was like
ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red rose. How
old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Her
laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft,
so low, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard.

"What _are_ you thinking about?"

Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home.

"I've been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You
_are_ absent-minded."

Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his
surprise.

"I thought I'd come and meet you."

"That's awfully nice of you," he said.

"Did I startle you?"

"You did a bit," he admitted.

He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight
pages of it.

The fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each
evening, when they went into the garden after supper, Miss
Wilkinson remarked that one day more had gone, Philip was in too
cheerful spirits to let the thought depress him. One night Miss
Wilkinson suggested that it would be delightful if she could
exchange her situation in Berlin for one in London. Then they
could see one another constantly. Philip said it would be very
jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was
looking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred
not to be hampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant
to do, and allowed Miss Wilkinson to see that already he was
longing to be off.

"You wouldn't talk like that if you loved me," she cried.

He was taken aback and remained silent.

"What a fool I've been," she muttered.

To his surprise he saw that she was crying. He had a tender
heart, and hated to see anyone miserable.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry. What have I done? Don't Cry."

"Oh, Philip, don't leave me. You don't know what you mean to me.
I have such a wretched life, and you've made me so happy."

He kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone,
and he was frightened. It had never occurred to him that she
meant what she said quite, quite seriously.

"I'm awfully sorry. You know I'm frightfully fond of you. I wish
you would come to London."

"You know I can't. Places are almost impossible to get, and I
hate English life."

Almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her
distress, he pressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely
flattered him, and he kissed her with real passion.

But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a
tennis-party at the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of
a retired major in an Indian regiment who had lately settled in
Blackstable. They were very pretty, one was Philip's age and the
other was a year or two younger. Being used to the society of
young men (they were full of stories of hill-stations in India,
and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling were in every
hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased with the
novelty--the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar's
nephew with a certain seriousness--was gay and jolly. Some devil
within him prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them
both, and as he was the only young man there, they were quite
willing to meet him half-way. It happened that they played
tennis quite well and Philip was tired of pat-ball with Miss
Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to
Blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he
suggested that Miss Wilkinson should play against the curate's
wife, with the curate as her partner; and he would play later
with the new-comers. He sat down by the elder Miss O'Connor and
said to her in an undertone:

"We'll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we'll have
a jolly set afterwards."

Apparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her
racket, and, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain
to everyone that she was offended. Philip was annoyed that she
should make the fact public. The set was arranged without her,
but presently Mrs. Carey called him.

"Philip, you've hurt Emily's feelings. She's gone to her room
and she's crying."

"What about?"

"Oh, something about a duffer's set. Do go to her, and say you
didn't mean to be unkind, there's a good boy."

"All right."

He knocked at Miss Wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer
went in. He found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping.
He touched her on the shoulder.

"I say, what on earth's the matter?"

"Leave me alone. I never want to speak to you again."

"What have I done? I'm awfully sorry if I've hurt your feelings.
I didn't mean to. I say, do get up."

"Oh, I'm so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I
hate that stupid game. I only play because I want to play with
you."

She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a
quick look in the glass sank into a chair. She made her
handkerchief into a ball and dabbed her eyes with it.

"I've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man--oh,
what a fool I was--and you have no gratitude. You must be quite
heartless. How could you be so cruel as to torment me by
flirting with those vulgar girls. We've only got just over a
week. Can't you even give me that?"

Philip stood over her rather sulkily. He thought her behaviour
childish. He was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper
before strangers.

"But you know I don't care twopence about either of the
O'Connors. Why on earth should you think I do?"

Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made
marks on her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat
disarranged. Her white dress did not suit her very well just
then. She looked at Philip with hungry, passionate eyes.

"Because you're twenty and so's she," she said hoarsely. "And
I'm old."

Philip reddened and looked away. The anguish of her tone made
him feel strangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he
had never had anything to do with Miss Wilkinson.

"I don't want to make you unhappy," he said awkwardly. "You'd
better go down and look after your friends. They'll wonder what
has become of you."

"All right."

He was glad to leave her.

The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the
few days that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He
wanted to talk of nothing but the future, and the future
invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson to tears. At first her weeping
affected him, and feeling himself a beast he redoubled his
protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated him: it
would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was
silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased
reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which
he could never repay. He was willing to acknowledge this since
she made a point of it, but he did not really know why he should
be any more grateful to her than she to him. He was expected to
show his sense of obligation in ways which were rather a
nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was
a necessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it
as an unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The
Miss O'Connors asked them both to tea, and Philip would have
liked to go, but Miss Wilkinson said she only had five days more
and wanted him entirely to herself. It was flattering, but a
bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy
of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies
as he to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their
passion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson
seemed to want a great deal.

Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must
be possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling
a certain satisfaction that she lived in Berlin.

"You will write to me, won't you? Write to me every day. I want
to know everything you're doing. You must keep nothing from me."

"I shall be awfully, busy" he answered. "I'll write as often as
I can."

She flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was
embarrassed sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He
would have preferred her to be more passive. It shocked him a
little that she should give him so marked a lead: it did not
tally altogether with his prepossessions about the modesty of
the feminine temperament.

At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and
she came down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable
travelling dress of black and white check. She looked a very
competent governess. Philip was silent too, for he did not quite
know what to say that would fit the circumstance; and he was
terribly afraid that, if he said something flippant, Miss
Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a scene.
They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden
the night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no
opportunity for them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room
after breakfast in case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing
him on the stairs. He did not want Mary Ann, now a woman hard
upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to catch them in a
compromising position. Mary Ann did not like Miss Wilkinson and
called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well and could
not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off.
Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr.
Carey.

"I must kiss you too, Philip," she said.

"All right," he said, blushing.

He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train
started, and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage
and wept disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the
vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief.

"Well, did you see her safely off?" asked Aunt Louisa, when they
got in.

"Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and
Philip."

"Oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous." Mrs. Carey pointed to
the sideboard. "There's a letter for you, Philip. It came by the
second post."

It was from Hayward and ran as follows:


My dear boy,

I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great
friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have
been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for
art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming. You
wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete
which is in every line. And because you love you write like a
poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow of
your young passion, and your prose was musical from the
sincerity of your emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could
have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you
wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers.
I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your
eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms,
so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er
consent--consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my
friend, I envy you. It is so good to think that your first love
should have been pure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the
immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All, and it
will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. You will never
again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is best love; and
she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours.
I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you
told me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure
that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with
gold. I would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and
read together Romeo and Juliet; and then I would have you fall
on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot
has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet
to her radiant youth and to your love for her.
                            Yours always,
                                    G. Etheridge Hayward.


"What damned rot!" said Philip, when he finished the letter.

Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read
Romeo and Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then,
as he put the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang
of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the
ideal.


CHAPTER XXXVI

A FEW days later Philip went to London. The curate had
recommended rooms in Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter
at fourteen shillings a week. He reached them in the evening;
and the landlady, a funny little old woman with a shrivelled
body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high tea for him.
Most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a
square table; against one wall was a sofa covered with
horsehair, and by the fireplace an arm-chair to match: there was
a white antimacassar over the back of it, and on the seat,
because the springs were broken, a hard cushion.

After having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he
sat down and tried to read; but he was depressed. The silence in
the street made him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very
much alone.

Next day he got up early. He put on his tail-coat and the tall
hat which he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he
made up his mind to stop at the Stores on his way to the office
and buy a new one. When he had done this he found himself in
plenty of time and so walked along the Strand. The office of
Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a little street off Chancery
Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times. He felt that
people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off
his hat to see whether by chance the label had been left on.
When he arrived he knocked at the door; but no one answered, and
looking at his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he
supposed he was too early. He went away and ten minutes later
returned to find an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face,
and a Scotch accent, opening the door. Philip asked for Mr.
Herbert Carter. He had not come yet.

"When will he be here?"

"Between ten and half past."

"I'd better wait," said Philip.

"What are you wanting?" asked the office-boy.

Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose
manner.

"Well, I'm going to work here if you have no objection."

"Oh, you're the new articled clerk? You'd better come in. Mr.
Goodworthy'll be here in a while."

Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy--he was
about the same age as Philip and called himself a junior
clerk--look at his foot. He flushed and, sitting down, hid it
behind the other. He looked round the room. It was dark and very
dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were three rows of desks
in it and against them high stools. Over the chimney-piece was
a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk came in
and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone
asked the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who
he was. A whistle blew, and Macdougal got up.

"Mr. Goodworthy's come. He's the managing clerk. Shall I tell
him you're here?"

"Yes, please," said Philip.

The office-boy went out and in a moment returned.

"Will you come this way?"

Philip followed him across the passage and was shown into a
room, small and barely furnished, in which a little, thin man
was standing with his back to the fireplace. He was much below
the middle height, but his large head, which seemed to hang
loosely on his body, gave him an odd ungainliness. His features
were wide and flattened, and he had prominent, pale eyes; his
thin hair was sandy; he wore whiskers that grew unevenly on his
face, and in places where you would have expected the hair to
grow thickly there was no hair at all. His skin was pasty and
yellow. He held out his hand to Philip, and when he smiled
showed badly decayed teeth. He spoke with a patronising and at
the same time a timid air, as though he sought to assume an
importance which he did not feel. He said he hoped Philip would
like the work; there was a good deal of drudgery about it, but
when you got used to it, it was interesting; and one made money,
that was the chief thing, wasn't it? He laughed with his odd
mixture of superiority and shyness.

"Mr. Carter will be here presently," he said. "He's a little
late on Monday mornings sometimes. I'll call you when he comes.
In the meantime I must give you something to do. Do you know
anything about book-keeping or accounts?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Philip.

"I didn't suppose you would. They don't teach you things at
school that are much use in business, I'm afraid." He considered
for a moment. "I think I can find you something to do."

He went into the next room and after a little while came out
with a large cardboard box. It contained a vast number of
letters in great disorder, and he told Philip to sort them out
and arrange them alphabetically according to the names of the
writers.

"I'll take you to the room in which the articled clerk generally
sits. There's a very nice fellow in it. His name is Watson. He's
a son of Watson, Crag, and Thompson--you know--the brewers. He's
spending a year with us to learn business."

Mr. Goodworthy led Philip through the dingy office, where now
six or eight clerks were working, into a narrow room behind. It
had been made into a separate apartment by a glass partition,
and here they found Watson sitting back in a chair, reading The
_Sportsman_. He was a large, stout young man, elegantly
dressed, and he looked up as Mr. Goodworthy entered. He asserted
his position by calling the managing clerk Goodworthy. The
managing clerk objected to the familiarity, and pointedly called
him Mr. Watson, but Watson, instead of seeing that it was a
rebuke, accepted the title as a tribute to his gentlemanliness.

"I see they've scratched Rigoletto," he said to Philip, as soon
as they were left alone.

"Have they?" said Philip, who knew nothing about horse-racing.

He looked with awe upon Watson's beautiful clothes. His
tail-coat fitted him perfectly, and there was a valuable pin
artfully stuck in the middle of an enormous tie. On the
chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy and bell-shaped
and shiny. Philip felt himself very shabby. Watson began to talk
of hunting--it was such an infernal bore having to waste one's
time in an infernal office, he would only be able to hunt on
Saturdays--and shooting: he had ripping invitations all over the
country and of course he had to refuse them. It was infernal
luck, but he wasn't going to put up with it long; he was only in
this internal hole for a year, and then he was going into the
business, and he would hunt four days a week and get all the
shooting there was.

"You've got five years of it, haven't you?" he said, waving his
arm round the tiny room.

"I suppose so," said Philip.

"I daresay I shall see something of you. Carter does our
accounts, you know."

Philip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman's
condescension. At Blackstable they had always looked upon
brewing with civil contempt, the Vicar made little jokes about
the beerage, and it was a surprising experience for Philip to
discover that Watson was such an important and magnificent
fellow. He had been to Winchester and to Oxford, and his
conversation impressed the fact upon one with frequency. When he
discovered the details of Philip's education his manner became
more patronising still.

"Of course, if one doesn't go to a public school those sort of
schools are the next best thing, aren't they?"

Philip asked about the other men in the office.

"Oh, I don't bother about them much, you know," said Watson.
"Carter's not a bad sort. We have him to dine now and then. All
the rest are awful bounders."

Presently Watson applied himself to some work he had in hand,
and Philip set about sorting his letters. Then Mr. Goodworthy
came in to say that Mr. Carter had arrived. He took Philip into
a large room next door to his own. There was a big desk in it,
and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the
floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr.
Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with
Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a
military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short
and nut, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he
lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the
country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and
chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that
a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man,
he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a
pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him.
Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did
Philip hunt? Pity, _the_ sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much
chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was
at Cambridge, he'd sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice
class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be
articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his son,
thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like
the work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the
tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well,
Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr.
Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting like? Ah
well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that.

Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East
Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the
gentlemen didn't talk about it.


CHAPTER XXXVII

AT FIRST the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr.
Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies
of statements of accounts.

Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines;
he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon
shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it
was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now
and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out
to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the
clients must be treated with respect and which were in low
water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add
up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr.
Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but
he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and
walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for
him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening
reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery.
Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled
out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went
industriously through room after room: he read carefully what
the critic had said about a picture and then in a determined
fashion set himself to see the same things in it. His Sundays
were difficult to get through. He knew no one in London and
spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to
spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with
a set of exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal,
took a walk on the heath, and came away with a general
invitation to come again whenever he liked; but he was morbidly
afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal invitation.
Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of
their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy
whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays
he got up late and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the
river is muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful
charm of the Thames above the locks nor the romance of the
crowded stream below London Bridge. In the afternoon he walked
about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither
country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the
litter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night
and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It
was not worth while to go back to Barnes for the interval
between the closing of the Museum and his meal in an A. B. C.
shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. He strolled up
Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was
tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the
public library in St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people
walking about and envied them because they had friends;
sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they were happy and
he was miserable. He had never imagined that it was possible to
be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was standing at
the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a
conversation; but Philip had the country boy's suspicion of
strangers and answered in such a way as to prevent any further
acquaintance. After the play was over, obliged to keep to
himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the bridge to
Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no
fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly cheerless. He
began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he
spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not
read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in
bitter wretchedness.

He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one
Sunday at Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his
fellow-clerks. One evening Watson asked him to dinner at a
restaurant and they went to a music-hall together; but he felt
shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of things he
did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a
Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because
Watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way
of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held
him he began to despise the acquirements which till then had
seemed to him not unimportant. He felt for the first time the
humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen pounds a
month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening
suit cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it
was bought in the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor
in London.

"I suppose you don't dance," said Watson, one day, with a glance
at Philip's club-foot.

"No," said Philip.

"Pity. I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I
could have introduced you to some jolly girls."

Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes,
Philip had remained in town, and late in the evening wandered
through the West End till he found some house at which there was
a party. He stood among the little group of shabby people,
behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive, and he listened
to the music that floated through the window. Sometimes,
notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and
stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining
that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped
along the street with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to
stand in that man's place. He felt that no woman could ever
really look upon him without distaste for his deformity.

That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without
satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that
she should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able
to send her an address, and when he went there he found three
letters from her. She wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and
she wrote in French. Philip wondered why she could not write in
English like a sensible woman, and her passionate expressions,
because they reminded him of a French novel, left him cold. She
upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he
excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not
quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring himself
to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily,
so finally he began with the word dear. It looked odd, standing
by itself, and rather silly, but he made it do. It was the first
love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious of its
tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement
things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he
longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the
thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented
him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his office.
The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken,
reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that she
hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman could
give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already?
Then, because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson
bombarded him with letters. She could not bear his unkindness,
she waited for the post, and it never brought her his letter,
she cried herself to sleep night after night, she was looking so
ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love her why did
he not say so? She added that she could not live without him,
and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him
he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French,
and Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but
he was worried all the same. He did not want to make her
unhappy. In a little while she wrote that she could not bear the
separation any longer, she would arrange to come over to London
for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he would like nothing
better, only he had already an engagement to spend Christmas
with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could
break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on
him, it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she
was deeply hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such
cruelty all her kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip
thought he saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an
impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and
imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received
her answer in which she said that she found it would be
impossible for her to get away. Presently when her letters came
his heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they
would contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would
make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what
he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day to day,
and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and
lonely and miserable.

"I wish to God I'd never had anything to do with her," he said.

He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily.
The young man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who
played in touring companies, and his account of the affair
filled Philip with envious amazement. But after a time Watson's
young affections changed, and one day he described the rupture
to Philip.

"I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just
told her I'd had enough of her," he said.

"Didn't she make an awful scene?" asked Philip.

"The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying
on that sort of thing with me."

"Did she cry?"

"She began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said
she'd better hook it."

Philip's sense of humour was growing keener with advancing
years.

"And did she hook it?" he asked smiling.

"Well, there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?"

Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been
ill all through November, and the doctor suggested that she and
the Vicar should go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round
Christmas so that she should get back her strength. The result
was that Philip had nowhere to go, and he spent Christmas Day in
his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he had persuaded himself
that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar and
barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice
of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected
him strangely. His landlady and her husband were spending the
day with a married daughter, and to save trouble Philip
announced that he would take his meals out. He went up to London
towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some Christmas
pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothing to do
afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service.
The streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had
a preoccupied look; they did not saunter but walked with some
definite goal in view, and hardly anyone was alone. To Philip
they all seemed happy. He felt himself more solitary than he had
ever done in his life. His intention had been to kill the day
somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he
could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking,
laughing, and making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on
his way through the Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and
a couple of mince pies and went back to Barnes. He ate his food
in his lonely little room and spent the evening with a book. His
depression was almost intolerable.

When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen
to Watson's account of the short holiday. They had had some
jolly girls staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared
out the drawing-room and had a dance.

"I didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there
then. By George, I was squiffy."

At last Philip asked desperately:

"How does one get to know people in London?"

Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly
contemptuous amusement.

"Oh, I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you
soon get to know as many people as you can do with."

Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to
change places with him. The old feeling that he had had at
school came back to him, and he tried to throw himself into the
other's skin, imagining what life would be if he were Watson.


CHAPTER XXXVIII

AT THE end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went
to various places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day
monotonously calling out items of expenditure, which the other
checked; and sometimes he was given long pages of figures to add
up. He had never had a head for figures, and he could only do
this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at his mistakes. His
fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with black
hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines
on each side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he
was an articled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred
guineas and keep himself for five years Philip had the chance of
a career; while he, with his experience and ability, had no
possibility of ever being more than a clerk at thirty-five
shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man, oppressed by a
large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he
fancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was
better educated than himself, and he mocked at Philip's
pronunciation; he could not forgive him because he spoke without
a cockney accent, and when he talked to him sarcastically
exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner was merely gruff
and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no gift for
accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks
were gross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in
self-defence he assumed an attitude of superiority which he did
not feel.

"Had a bath this morning?" Thompson said when Philip came to the
office late, for his early punctuality had not lasted.

"Yes, haven't you?"

"No, I'm not a gentleman, I'm only a clerk. I have a bath on
Saturday night."

"I suppose that's why you're more than usually disagreeable on
Monday."

"Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today?
I'm afraid it's asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows
Latin and Greek."

"Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy."

But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks,
ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or
twice Mr. Goodworthy grew impatient with him.

"You really ought to be able to do better than this by now," he
said. "You're not even as smart as the office-boy."

Philip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it
humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair
copies of, Mr. Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to
another clerk to do. At first the work had been tolerable from
its novelty, but now it grew irksome; and when he discovered
that he had no aptitude for it, he began to hate it. Often, when
he should have been doing something that was given him, he
wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office
note-paper. He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable
attitude, and Watson was impressed by his talent. It occurred to
him to take the drawings home, and he came back next day with
the praises of his family.

"I wonder you didn't become a painter," he said. "Only of course
there's no money in it."

It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining
with the Watsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following
morning he sent for Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in
some awe of him.

"Look here, young fellow, I don't care what you do out of
office-hours, but I've seen those sketches of yours and they're
on office-paper, and Mr. Goodworthy tells me you're slack. You
won't do any good as a chartered accountant unless you look
alive. It's a fine profession, and we're getting a very good
class of men in it, but it's a profession in which you have
to..." he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could
not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, "in
which you have to look alive."

Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement
that if he did not like the work he could leave after a year,
and get back half the money paid for his articles. He felt that
he was fit for something better than to add up accounts, and it
was humiliating that he did so ill something which seemed
contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson got on his nerves.
In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip, though
he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. The fact that
the other clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to
a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of union.
When Philip thought that he must spend over four years more with
that dreary set of fellows his heart sank. He had expected
wonderful things from London and it had given him nothing. He
hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he
was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by
himself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of
such a life. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy
of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it,
and of getting away from those drab lodgings.

A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had
announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and
Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. He had
read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full
of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was
willing to interest himself in abstract things. He was quite
excited at the thought of talking his fill with someone, and he
was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the spring was
lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not
bear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not
come. What was the use of squandering the days of his youth in
an office when the world was beautiful? The letter proceeded.


_I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and
Lincoln's Inn now with a shudder of disgust. There are only two
things in the world that make life worth living, love and art.
I cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and do
you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag? My
feeling is that one should look upon life as an adventure, one
should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should take
risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go to
Paris and study art? I always thought you had talent._


The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some
time had been vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him
at first, but he could not help thinking of it, and in the
constant rumination over it he found his only escape from the
wretchedness of his present state. They all thought he had
talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours, Miss
Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were
chasing; even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his
sketches. _La Vie de Boheme_ had made a deep impression on
him. He had brought it to London and when he was most depressed
he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those
chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and
loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he had
thought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion;
he yearned for romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to
offer them all. He had a passion for pictures, and why should he
not be able to paint as well as anybody else? He wrote to Miss
Wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in
Paris. She told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds
a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project. She
told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would be
a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically,
and she besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the
great thing. But Philip had a cautious nature. It was all very
well for Hayward to talk of taking risks, he had three hundred
a year in gilt-edged securities; Philip's entire fortune
amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds. He hesitated.

Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly
if he would like to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for
a hotel in the Faubourg St. Honore, which was owned by an
English company, and twice a year Mr. Goodworthy and a clerk
went over. The clerk who generally went happened to be ill, and
a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away.
Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be
spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which
was one of the pleasures of the business. Philip was delighted.

"You'll 'ave to work all day," said Mr. Goodworthy, "but we get
our evenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris." He smiled in a
knowing way. "They do us very well at the hotel, and they give
us all our meals, so it don't cost one anything. That's the way
I like going to Paris, at other people's expense."

When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of
gesticulating porters his heart leaped.

"This is the real thing," he said to himself.

He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored
the sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than
anything he had ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals
and the long lines of poplars. When they got out of the Gare du
Nord, and trundled along the cobbled streets in a ramshackle,
noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing a new air so
intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from shouting
aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a
stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy
was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in
his private room with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he
had never eaten anything so delicious as the _beefsteak aux
pommes_, nor drunk such nectar as the _vin ordinaire_, which
were set before them.

To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent
principles, the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously
obscene. He asked the manager next morning what there was to be
seen that was `thick.' He thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his
to Paris; he said they kept you from growing rusty. In the
evenings, after their work was over and they had dined, he took
Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. His little
eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he
sought out the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which
were specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said
that a nation could come to no good which permitted that sort of
thing. He nudged Philip when at some revue a woman appeared with
practically nothing on, and pointed out to him the most
strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. It was a
vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes
blinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of
the hotel and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place
de la Concorde. It was June, and Paris was silvery with the
delicacy of the air. Philip felt his heart go out to the people.
Here he thought at last was romance.

They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and
when Philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his
mind was made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to
Paris to study art; but so that no one should think him
unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till his year
was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in
August, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that
he had no intention of returning. But though Philip could force
himself to go to the office every day he could not even pretend
to show any interest in the work. His mind was occupied with the
future. After the middle of July there was nothing much to do
and he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to
lectures for his first examination. The time he got in this way
he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and
books about painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of
Vasari's lives of the painters. He liked that story of
Correggio, and he fancied himself standing before some great
masterpiece and crying: _Anch' io son' pittore_. His
hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in
him the makings of a great painter.

"After all, I can only try," he said to himself. "The great
thing in life is to take risks."

At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the
month in Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the
office. Mr. Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip
since their trip to Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so
soon to be free, he could look upon the funny little man with
tolerance.

"You're going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?" he said to him
in the evening.

All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last
time he would ever sit in that hateful office.

"Yes, this is the end of my year."

"I'm afraid you've not done very well. Mr. Carter's very
dissatisfied with you."

"Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter," returned
Philip cheerfully.

"I don't think you should speak like that, Carey."

"I'm not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn't
like accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I
paid for my articles and I could chuck it at the end of a year."

"You shouldn't come to such a decision hastily."

"For ten months I've loathed it all, I've loathed the work, I've
loathed the office, I loathe Loudon. I'd rather sweep a crossing
than spend my days here."

"Well, I must say, I don't think you're very fitted for
accountancy."

"Good-bye," said Philip, holding out his hand. "I want to thank
you for your kindness to me. I'm sorry if I've been troublesome.
I knew almost from the beginning I was no good."

"Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I
don't know what you're going to do, but if you're in the
neighbourhood at any time come in and see us."

Philip gave a little laugh.

"I'm afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of
my heart that I shall never set eyes on any of you again."


CHAPTER XXXIX

THE Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the
scheme which Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that
one should stick to whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he
laid an exaggerated stress on not changing one's mind.

"You chose to be an accountant of your own free will," he said.

"I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of
getting up to town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing
will induce me to go back to it."

Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip's idea of
being an artist. He should not forget, they said, that his
father and mother were gentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious
profession; it was Bohemian, disreputable, immoral. And then
Paris!

"So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not
allow you to live in Paris," said the Vicar firmly.

It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon
Haunted their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not
more wicked.

"You've been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I
should be false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father
and mother if I allowed you to expose yourself to such
temptation."

"Well, I know I'm not a Christian and I'm beginning to doubt
whether I'm a gentleman," said Philip.

The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before
Philip took possession of his small inheritance, and during that
time Mr. Carey proposed only to give him an allowance if he
remained at the office. It was clear to Philip that if he meant
not to continue with accountancy he must leave it while he could
still get back half the money that had been paid for his
articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing all
reserve, said things to wound and irritate.

"You've got no right to waste my money," he said at last. "After
all it's my money, isn't it? I'm not a child. You can't prevent
me from going to Paris if I make up my mind to. You can't force
me to go back to London."

"All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think
fit."

"Well, I don't care, I've made up my mind to go to Paris. I
shall sell my clothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery."

Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. she saw that
Philip was beside himself, and anything she said then would but
increase his anger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished
to hear nothing more about it and with dignity left the room.
For the next three days neither Philip nor he spoke to one
another. Philip wrote to Hayward for information about Paris,
and made up his mind to set out as soon as he got a reply. Mrs.
Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; she felt
that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and
the thought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At
length she spoke to him; she listened attentively while he
poured out all his disillusionment of London and his eager
ambition for the future.

"I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can't be a
worse failure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that
I can paint. I know I've got it in me."

She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in
thwarting so strong an inclination. She had read of great
painters whose parents had opposed their wish to study, the
event had shown with what folly; and after all it was just as
possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life to the glory of
God as for a chartered accountant.

"I'm so afraid of your going to Paris," she said piteously. "It
wouldn't be so bad if you studied in London."

"If I'm going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it's
only in Paris that you can get the real thing."

At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that
Philip was discontented with his work in London, and asking what
he thought of a change. Mr. Nixon answered as follows:


_Dear Mrs. Carey,

I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you
that Philip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he
is very strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that
he should take the opportunity there is now to break his
articles. I am naturally very disappointed, but as you know you
can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink.
                                    Yours very sincerely,
                                                 Albert Nixon._


The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase
his obstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up
some other profession, he suggested his father's calling,
medicine, but nothing would induce him to pay an allowance if
Philip went to Paris.

"It's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality," he
said.

"I'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others,"
retorted Philip acidly.

But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the
name of a hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs
a month and enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of
a school. Philip read the letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he
proposed to start on the first of September.

"But you haven't got any money?" she said.

"I'm going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the
jewellery."

He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or
three rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl
and might fetch a considerable sum.

"It's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what
it'll fetch," said Aunt Louisa.

Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases.

"I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on
the lot, and that'll keep me till I'm twenty-one."

Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her
little black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came
back. She went to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room,
and handed him an envelope.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's a little present for you," she answered, smiling shyly.

He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little
paper sack bulging with sovereigns.

"I couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. It's
the money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred
pounds."

Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his
eyes.

"Oh, my dear, I can't take it," he said. "It's most awfully good
of you, but I couldn't bear to take it."

When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and
this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any
unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and
birthday presents for her husband and for Philip. In the course
of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with the
Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich
woman and he constantly spoke of the `nest egg.'

"Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been extravagant,
and there's only that left. But it'll make me so happy if you'll
accept it."

"But you'll want it," said Philip.

"No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle
died before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little
something I could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don't
think I shall live very much longer now."

"Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're going to
live for ever. I can't possibly spare you."

"Oh, I'm not sorry." Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but
in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. "At first, I used
to pray to God that He might not take me first, because I didn't
want your uncle to be left alone, I didn't want him to have all
the suffering, but now I know that it wouldn't mean so much to
your uncle as it would mean to me. He wants to live more than I
do, I've never been the wife he wanted, and I daresay he'd marry
again if anything happened to me. So I should like to go first.
You don't think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I
couldn't bear it if he went."

Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the
sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely
ashamed. It was incomprehensible that she should care so much
for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly
self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew
his indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him
humbly all the same.

"You will take the money, Philip?" she said, gently stroking his
hand. "I know you can do without it, but it'll give me so much
happiness. I've always wanted to do something for you. You see,
I never had a child of my own, and I've loved you as if you were
my son. When you were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked,
I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that I could
nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and then it
was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only
chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a
great artist you won't forget me, but you'll remember that I
gave you your start."

"It's very good of you," said Philip. "I'm very grateful." A
smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.

"Oh, I'm so glad."


CHAPTER XL

A FEW days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to see Philip
off. She stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back
her tears. Philip was restless and eager. He wanted to be gone.

"Kiss me once more," she said.

He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The train started,
and she stood on the wooden platform of the little station,
waving her handkerchief till it was out of sight. Her heart was
dreadfully heavy, and the few hundred yards to the vicarage
seemed very, very long. It was natural enough that he should be
eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and the future beckoned
to him; but she--she clenched her teeth so that she should not
cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God would guard
him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and
good fortune.

But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled
down in his carriage. He thought only of the future. He had
written to Mrs. Otter, the _massiere_ to whom Hayward had
given him an introduction, and had in his pocket an invitation
to tea on the following day. When he arrived in Paris he had his
luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the gay
streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin
Quarter. He had taken a room at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which
was in a shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparuasse; it was
convenient for Amitrano's School at which he was going to work.
A waiter took his box up five flights of stairs, and Philip was
shown into a tiny room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater
part of which was taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy
over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows of
the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a
washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style
which is connected with the good King Louis Philippe. The
wall-paper was discoloured with age; it was dark gray, and there
could be vaguely seen on it garlands of brown leaves. To Philip
the room seemed quaint and charming.

Though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out,
made his way into the boulevard and walked towards the light.
This led him to the station; and the square in front of it,
vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with the yellow trams that seemed to
cross it in all directions, made him laugh aloud with joy. There
were cafes all round, and by chance, thirsty and eager to get a
nearer sight of the crowd, Philip installed himself at a little
table outside the Cafe de Versailles. Every other table was
taken, for it was a fine night; and Philip looked curiously at
the people, here little family groups, there a knot of men with
odd-shaped hats and beards talking loudly and gesticulating;
next to him were two men who looked like painters with women who
Philip hoped were not their lawful wives; behind him he heard
Americans loudly arguing on art. His soul was thrilled. He sat
till very late, tired out but too happy to move, and when at
last he went to bed he was wide awake; he listened to the
manifold noise of Paris.

Next day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion de Belfort,
and in a new street that led out of the Boulevard Raspail found
Mrs. Otter. She was an insignificant woman of thirty, with a
provincial air and a deliberately lady-like manner; she
introduced him to her mother. He discovered presently that she
had been studying in Paris for three years and later that she
was separated from her husband. She had in her small
drawing-room one or two portraits which she had painted, and to
Philip's inexperience they seemed extremely accomplished.

"I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well as that," he
said to her.

"Oh, I expect so," she replied, not without self-satisfaction.
"You can't expect to do everything all at once, of course."

She was very kind. She gave him the address of a shop where he
could get a portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal.

"I shall be going to Amitrano's about nine tomorrow, and if
you'll be there then I'll see that you get a good place and all
that sort of thing."

She asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt that he
should not let her see how vague he was about the whole matter.

"Well, first I want to learn to draw," he said.

"I'm so glad to hear you say that. People always want to do
things in such a hurry. I never touched oils till I'd been here
for two years, and look at the result."

She gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece
of painting that hung over the piano.

"And if I were you, I would be very careful about the people you
get to know. I wouldn't mix myself up with any foreigners. I'm
very careful myself."

Philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd.
He did not know that he particularly wanted to be careful.

"We live just as we would if we were in England," said Mrs.
Otter's mother, who till then had spoken little. "When we came
here we brought all our own furniture over."

Philip looked round the room. It was filled with a massive
suite, and at the window were the same sort of white lace
curtains which Aunt Louisa put up at the vicarage in summer. The
piano was draped in Liberty silk and so was the chimney-piece.
Mrs. Otter followed his wandering eye.

"In the evening when we close the shutters one might really feel
one was in England."

"And we have our meals just as if we were at home," added her
mother. "A meat breakfast in the morning and dinner in the
middle of the day."

When he left Mrs. Otter Philip went to buy drawing materials;
and next morning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem
self-assured, he presented himself at the school. Mrs. Otter was
already there, and she came forward with a friendly smile. He
had been anxious about the reception he would have as a
_nouveau_, for he had read a good deal of the rough joking to
which a newcomer was exposed at some of the studios; but Mrs.
Otter had reassured him.

"Oh, there's nothing like that here," she said. "You see, about
half our students are ladies, and they set a tone to the place."

The studio was large and bare, with gray walls, on which were
pinned the studies that had received prizes. A model was sitting
in a chair with a loose wrap thrown over her, and about a dozen
men and women were standing about, some talking and others still
working on their sketch. It was the first rest of the model.

"You'd better not try anything too difficult at first," said
Mrs. Otter. "Put your easel here. You'll find that's the easiest
pose."

Philip placed an easel where she indicated, and Mrs. Otter
introduced him to a young woman who sat next to him.

"Mr. Carey--Miss Price. Mr. Carey's never studied before, you
won't mind helping him a little just at first will you?" Then
she turned to the model. "_La Pose_."

The model threw aside the paper she had been reading, _La
Petite Republique_, and sulkily, throwing off her gown, got on
to the stand. She stood, squarely on both feet with her hands
clasped behind her head.

"It's a stupid pose," said Miss Price. "I can't imagine why they
chose it."

When Philip entered, the people in the studio had looked at him
curiously, and the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now
they ceased to pay attention to him. Philip, with his beautiful
sheet of paper in front of him, stared awkwardly at the model.
He did not know how to begin. He had never seen a naked woman
before. She was not young and her breasts were shrivelled. She
had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead untidily,
and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss
Price's work. She had only been working on it two days, and it
looked as though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess
from constant rubbing out, and to Philip's eyes the figure
looked strangely distorted.

"I should have thought I could do as well as that," he said to
himself.

He began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly
downwards, but, he could not understand why, he found it
infinitely more difficult to draw a head from the model than to
draw one from his imagination. He got into difficulties. He
glanced at Miss Price. She was working with vehement gravity.
Her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious
look in her eyes. It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat
stood on her forehead. She was a girl of twenty-six, with a
great deal of dull gold hair; it was handsome hair, but it was
carelessly done, dragged back from her forehead and tied in a
hurried knot. She had a large face, with broad, flat features
and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular
unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks.
She had an unwashed air and you could not help wondering if she
slept in her clothes. She was serious and silent. When the next
pause came, she stepped back to look at her work.

"I don't know why I'm having so much bother," she said. "But I
mean to get it right." She turned to Philip. "How are you
getting on?"

"Not at all," he answered, with a rueful smile.

She looked at what he had done.

"You can't expect to do anything that way. You must take
measurements. And you must square out your paper."

She showed him rapidly how to set about the business. Philip was
impressed by her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm.
He was grateful for the hints she gave him and set to work
again. Meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men, for the
women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of year
(it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there came in a
young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so
long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip
and nodded across him to Miss Price.

"You're very late," she said. "Are you only just up?"

"It was such a splendid day, I thought I'd lie in bed and think
how beautiful it was out."

Philip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark seriously.

"That seems a funny thing to do, I should have thought it would
be more to the point to get up and enjoy it."

"The way of the humorist is very hard," said the young man
gravely.

He did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his canvas; he
was working in colour, and had sketched in the day before the
model who was posing. He turned to Philip.

"Have you just come out from England?"

"Yes."

"How did you find your way to Amitrano's?"

"It was the only school I knew of."

"I hope you haven't come with the idea that you will learn
anything here which will be of the smallest use to you."

"It's the best school in Paris," said Miss Price. "It's the only
one where they take art seriously."

"Should art be taken seriously?" the young man asked; and since
Miss Price replied only with a scornful shrug, he added: "But
the point is, all schools are bad. They are academical,
obviously. Why this is less injurious than most is that the
teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. Because you learn
nothing...."

"But why d'you come here then?" interrupted Philip.

"I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price, who
is cultured, will remember the Latin of that."

"I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr.
Clutton," said Miss Price brusquely.

"The only way to learn to paint," he went on, imperturbable, "is
to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for
yourself."

"That seems a simple thing to do," said Philip.

"It only needs money," replied Clutton.

He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the comer of
his eye. He was long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed
to protrude from his body; his elbows were so sharp that they
appeared to jut out through the arms of his shabby coat. His
trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on each of his boots was
a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to Philip's
easel.

"If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I'll just
help you a little," she said.

"Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour," said Clutton,
looking meditatively at his canvas, "but she detests me because
I have genius."

He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made
what he said very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh, but Miss
Price grew darkly red with anger.

"You're the only person who has ever accused you of genius."

"Also I am the only person whose opinion is of the least value
to me."

Miss Price began to criticise what Philip had done. She talked
glibly of anatomy and construction, planes and lines, and of
much else which Philip did not understand. She had been at the
studio a long time and knew the main points which the masters
insisted upon, but though she could show what was wrong with
Philip's work she could not tell him how to put it right.

"It's awfully kind of you to take so much trouble with me," said
Philip.

"Oh, it's nothing," she answered, flushing awkwardly. "People
did the same for me when I first came, I'd do it for anyone."

"Miss Price wants to indicate that she is giving you the
advantage of her knowledge from a sense of duty rather than on
account of any charms of your person," said Clutton.

Miss Price gave him a furious look, and went back to her own
drawing. The clock struck twelve, and the model with a cry of
relief stepped down from the stand.

Miss Price gathered up her things.

"Some of us go to Gravier's for lunch," she said to Philip, with
a look at Clutton. "I always go home myself."

"I'll take you to Gravier's it you like," said Clutton.

Philip thanked him and made ready to go. On his way out Mrs.
Otter asked him how he had been getting on.

"Did Fanny Price help you?" she asked. "I put you there because
I know she can do it if she likes. She's a disagreeable,
ill-natured girl, and she can't draw herself at all, but she
knows the ropes, and she can be useful to a newcomer if she
cares to take the trouble."

On the way down the street Clutton said to him:

"You've made an impression on Fanny Price. You'd better look
out."

Philip laughed. He had never seen anyone on whom he wished less
to make an impression. They came to the cheap little restaurant
at which several of the students ate, and Clutton sat down at a
table at which three or four men were already seated. For a
franc, they got an egg, a plate of meat, cheese, and a small
bottle of wine. Coffee was extra. They sat on the pavement, and
yellow trams passed up and down the boulevard with a ceaseless
ringing of bells.

"By the way, what's your name?" said Clutton, as they took their
seats.

"Carey."

"Allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend, Carey by
name," said Clutton gravely. "Mr. Flanagan, Mr. Lawson."

They laughed and went on with their conversation. They talked of
a thousand things, and they all talked at once. No one paid the
smallest attention to anyone else. They talked of the places
they had been to in the summer, of studios, of the various
schools; they mentioned names which were unfamiliar to Philip,
Monet, Manet, Renoir, Pissarro, Degas. Philip listened with all
his ears, and though he felt a little out of it, his heart
leaped with exultation. The time flew. When Clutton got up he
said:

"I expect you'll find me here this evening if you care to come.
You'll find this about the best place for getting dyspepsia at
the lowest cost in the Quarter."


CHAPTER XLI

PHILIP walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was not at
all like the Paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to
do the accounts of the Hotel St. Georges--he thought already of
that part of his life with a shudder--but reminded him of what
he thought a provincial town must be. There was an easy-going
air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which invited the mind to
day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid whiteness of
the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt
himself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along, staring
at the people; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary,
workmen with their broad red sashes and their wide trousers,
little soldiers in dingy, charming uniforms. He came presently
to the Avenue de l'Observatoire, and he gave a sigh of pleasure
at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He came to the
gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with
long ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through
with satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The
scene was formal and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered,
but so exquisitely, that nature unordered and unarranged seemed
barbaric. Philip was enchanted. It excited him to stand on that
spot of which he had read so much; it was classic ground to him;
and he felt the awe and the delight which some old don might
feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of
Sparta.

As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself
on a bench. He hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to
see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid the
happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her
sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it
would be polite to speak to her.

"What are you doing here?" she said, as he came up.

"Enjoying myself. Aren't you?"

"Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I don't think one
does any good if one works straight through."

"May I sit down for a minute?" he said.

"If you want to."

"That doesn't sound very cordial," he laughed.

"I'm not much of a one for saying pretty things."

Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette.

"Did Clutton say anything about my work?" she asked suddenly.

"No, I don't think he did," said Philip.

"He's no good, you know. He thinks he's a genius, but he isn't.
He's too lazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite capacity for
taking pains. The only thing is to peg away. If one only makes
up one's mind badly enough to do a thing one can't help doing
it."

She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather
striking. She wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse
which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt. She had no gloves
on, and her hands wanted washing. She was so unattractive that
Philip wished he had not begun to talk to her. He could not make
out whether she wanted him to stay or go.

"I'll do anything I can for you," she said all at once, without
reference to anything that had gone before. "I know how hard it
is."

"Thank you very much," said Philip, then in a moment: "Won't you
come and have tea with me somewhere?"

She looked at him quickly and flushed. When she reddened her
pasty skin acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries
and cream that had gone bad.

"No, thanks. What d'you think I want tea for? I've only just had
lunch."

"I thought it would pass the time," said Philip.

"If you find it long you needn't bother about me, you know. I
don't mind being left alone."

At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous
trousers, and basque caps. They were young, but both wore
beards.

"I say, are those art-students?" said Philip. "They might have
stepped out of the _Vie de Boheme_."

"They're Americans," said Miss Price scornfully. "Frenchmen
haven't worn things like that for thirty years, but the
Americans from the Far West buy those clothes and have
themselves photographed the day after they arrive in Paris.
That's about as near to art as they ever get. But it doesn't
matter to them, they've all got money."

Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans'
costume; he thought it showed the romantic spirit. Miss Price
asked him the time.

"I must be getting along to the studio," she said. "Are you
going to the sketch classes?"

Philip did not know anything about them, and she told him that
from five to six every evening a model sat, from whom anyone who
liked could go and draw at the cost of fifty centimes. They had
a different model every day, and it was very good practice.

"I don't suppose you're good enough yet for that. You'd better
wait a bit."

"I don't see why I shouldn't try. I haven't got anything else to
do."

They got up and walked to the studio. Philip could not tell from
her manner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with her or
preferred to walk alone. He remained from sheer embarrassment,
not knowing how to leave her; but she would not talk; she
answered his questions in an ungracious manner.

A man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into
which each person as he went in dropped his half franc. The
studio was much fuller than it had been in the morning, and
there was not the preponderance of English and Americans; nor
were women there in so large a proportion. Philip felt the
assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. It was
very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. It was an old man who
sat this time, with a vast gray beard, and Philip tried to put
into practice the little he had learned in the morning; but he
made a poor job of it; he realised that he could not draw nearly
as well as he thought. He glanced enviously at one or two
sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered whether he would
ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. The hour
passed quickly. Not wishing to press himself upon Miss Price he
sat down at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed
her on his way out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on.

"Not very well," he smiled.

"If you'd condescended to come and sit near me I could have
given you some hints. I suppose you thought yourself too grand."

"No, it wasn't that. I was afraid you'd think me a nuisance."

"When I do that I'll tell you sharp enough."

Philip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help.

"Well, tomorrow I'll just force myself upon you."

"I don't mind," she answered.

Philip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till
dinner. He was eager to do something characteristic.
_Absinthe!_ of course it was indicated, and so, sauntering
towards the station, he seated himself outside a cafe and
ordered it. He drank with nausea and satisfaction. He found the
taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt
every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty
stomach his spirits presently grew very high. He watched the
crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. He was happy. When
he reached Gravier's the table at which Clutton sat was full,
but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he called out to him.
They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish
of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip
paid no attention to what he ate. He took note of the men at the
table. Flanagan was there again: he was an American, a short,
snub-nosed youth with a jolly face and a laughing mouth. He wore
a Norfolk jacket of bold pattern, a blue stock round his neck,
and a tweed cap of fantastic shape. At that time impressionism
reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory over the older
schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau, and
their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas. To
appreciate these was still a sign of grace. Whistler was an
influence strong with the English and his compatriots, and the
discerning collected Japanese prints. The old masters were
tested by new standards. The esteem in which Raphael had been
for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men.
They offered to give all his works for Velasquez' head of Philip
IV in the National Gallery. Philip found that a discussion on
art was raging. Lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat
opposite to him. He was a thin youth with a freckled face and
red hair. He had very bright green eyes. As Philip sat down he
fixed them on him and remarked suddenly:

"Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people's
pictures. When he painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was
charming; when he painted Raphaels he was," with a scornful
shrug, "Raphael."

Lawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he
was not obliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently.

"Oh, to hell with art!" he cried. "Let's get ginny."

"You were ginny last night, Flanagan," said Lawson.

"Nothing to what I mean to be tonight," he answered. "Fancy
being in Pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time."
He spoke with a broad Western accent. "My, it is good to be
alive." He gathered himself together and then banged his fist on
the table. "To hell with art, I say."

"You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration,"
said Clutton severely.

There was another American at the table. He was dressed like
those fine fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the
Luxembourg. He had a handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark
eyes; he wore his fantastic garb with the dashing air of a
buccaneer. He had a vast quantity of dark hair which fell
constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to
throw back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of
the way. He began to talk of the _Olympia_ by Manet, which
then hung in the Luxembourg.

"I stood in front of it for an hour today, and I tell you it's
not a good picture."

Lawson put down his knife and fork. His green eyes flashed fire,
he gasped with rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon
himself.

"It's very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored
savage," he said. "Will you tell us why it isn't a good
picture?"

Before the American could answer someone else broke in
vehemently.

"D'you mean to say you can look at the painting of that flesh
and say it's not good?"

"I don't say that. I think the right breast is very well
painted."

"The right breast be damned," shouted Lawson. "The whole thing's
a miracle of painting."

He began to describe in detail the beauties of the picture, but
at this table at Gravier's they who spoke at length spoke for
their own edification. No one listened to him. The American
interrupted angrily.

"You don't mean to say you think the head's good?"

Lawson, white with passion now, began to defend the head; but
Clutton, who had been sitting in silence with a look on his face
of good-humoured scorn, broke in.

"Give him the head. We don't want the head. It doesn't affect
the picture."

"All right, I'll give you the head," cried Lawson. "Take the
head and be damned to you."

"What about the black line?" cried the American, triumphantly
pushing back a wisp of hair which nearly fell in his soup. "You
don't see a black line round objects in nature."

"Oh, God, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer,"
said Lawson. "What has nature got to do with it? No one knows
what's in nature and what isn't! The world sees nature through
the eyes of the artist. Why, for centuries it saw horses jumping
a fence with all their legs extended, and by Heaven, sir, they
were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet discovered they
were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black. If we choose
to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the
black line, and there will be a black line; and if we paint
grass red and cows blue, it'll see them red and blue, and, by
Heaven, they will be red and blue."

"To hell with art," murmured Flanagan. "I want to get ginny."

Lawson took no notice of the interruption.

"Now look here, when _Olympia_ was shown at the Salon,
Zola--amid the jeers of the Philistines and the hisses of the
pompiers, the academicians, and the public, Zola said: `I look
forward to the day when Manet's picture will hang in the Louvre
opposite the _Odalisque_ of Ingres, and it will not be the
_Odalisque_ which will gain by comparison.' It'll be there. Every
day I see the time grow nearer. In ten years the _Olympia_
will be in the Louvre."

"Never," shouted the American, using both hands now with a
sudden desperate attempt to get his hair once for all out of the
way. "In ten years that picture will be dead. It's only a
fashion of the moment. No picture can live that hasn't got
something which that picture misses by a million miles."

"And what is that?"

"Great art can't exist without a moral element."

"Oh God!" cried Lawson furiously. "I knew it was that. He wants
morality." He joined his hands and held them towards heaven in
supplication. "Oh, Christopher Columbus, Christopher Columbus,
what did you do when you discovered America?"

"Ruskin says..."

But before he could add another word, Clutton rapped with the
handle of his knife imperiously on the table.

"Gentlemen," he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose
positively wrinkled with passion, "a name has been mentioned
which I never thought to hear again in decent society. Freedom
of speech is all very well, but we must observe the limits of
common propriety. You may talk of Bouguereau if you will: there
is a cheerful disgustingness in the sound which excites
laughter; but let us not sully our chaste lips with the names of
J. Ruskin, G. F. Watts, or E. B. Jones."

"Who was Ruskin anyway?" asked Flanagan.

"He was one of the Great Victorians. He was a master of English
style."

"Ruskin's style--a thing of shreds and purple patches," said
Lawson. "Besides, damn the Great Victorians. Whenever I open a
paper and see Death of a Great Victorian, I thank Heaven there's
one more of them gone. Their only talent was longevity, and no
artist should be allowed to live after he's forty; by then a man
has done his best work, all he does after that is repetition.
Don't you think it was the greatest luck in the world for them
that Keats, Shelley, Bonnington, and Byron died early? What a
genius we should think Swinburne if he had perished on the day
the first series of _Poems and Ballads_ was published!"

The suggestion pleased, for no one at the table was more than
twenty-four, and they threw themselves upon it with gusto. They
were unanimous for once. They elaborated. Someone proposed a
vast bonfire made out of the works of the Forty Academicians
into which the Great Victorians might be hurled on their
fortieth birthday. The idea was received with acclamation.
Carlyle and Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B.
Jones, Dickens, Thackeray, they were hurried into the flames;
Mr. Gladstone, John Bright, and Cobden; there was a moment's
discussion about George Meredith, but Matthew Arnold and Emerson
were given up cheerfully. At last came Walter Pater.

"Not Walter Pater," murmured Philip.

Lawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes and then
nodded.

"You're quite right, Walter Pater is the only justification for
Mona Lisa. D'you know Cronshaw? He used to know Pater."

"Who's Cronshaw?" asked Philip.

"Cronshaw's a poet. He lives here. Let's go to the Lilas."

La Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the
evening after dinner, and here Cronshaw was invariably to be
found between the hours of nine at night and two in the morning.
But Flanagan had had enough of intellectual conversation for one
evening, and when Lawson made his suggestion, turned to Philip.

"Oh gee, let's go where there are girls," he said. "Come to the
Gaite Montparnasse, and we'll get ginny."

"I'd rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober," laughed Philip.


CHAPTER XLII

THERE was a general disturbance. Flanagan and two or three more
went on to the music-hall, while Philip walked slowly with
Clutton and Lawson to the Closerie des Lilas.

"You must go to the Gaite Montparnasse," said Lawson to him.
"It's one of the loveliest things in Paris. I'm going to paint
it one of these days."

Philip, influenced by Hayward, looked upon music-halls with
scornful eyes, but he had reached Paris at a time when their
artistic possibilities were just discovered. The peculiarities
of lighting, the masses of dingy red and tarnished gold, the
heaviness of the shadows and the decorative lines, offered a new
theme; and half the studios in the Quarter contained sketches
made in one or other of the local theatres. Men of letters,
following in the painters' wake, conspired suddenly to find
artistic value in the turns; and red-nosed comedians were lauded
to the skies for their sense of character; fat female singers,
who had bawled obscurely for twenty years, were discovered to
possess inimitable drollery; there were those who found an
aesthetic delight in performing dogs; while others exhausted
their vocabulary to extol the distinction of conjurers and
trick-cyclists. The crowd too, under another influence, was
become an object of sympathetic interest. With Hayward, Philip
had disdained humanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of
one who wraps himself in solitariness and watches with disgust
the antics of the vulgar; but Clutton and Lawson talked of the
multitude with enthusiasm. They described the seething throng
that filled the various fairs of Paris, the sea of faces, half
seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness, and
the blare of trumpets, the hooting of whistles, the hum of
voices. What they said was new and strange to Philip. They told
him about Cronshaw.

"Have you ever read any of his work?"

"No," said Philip.

"It came out in _The Yellow Book_."

They looked upon him, as painters often do writers, with
contempt because he was a layman, with tolerance because he
practised an art, and with awe because he used a medium in which
themselves felt ill-at-ease.

"He's an extraordinary fellow. You'll find him a bit
disappointing at first, he only comes out at his best when he's
drunk."

"And the nuisance is," added Clutton, "that it takes him a devil
of a time to get drunk."

When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would
have to go in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but
Cronshaw had a morbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest
weather sat inside.

"He knows everyone worth knowing," Lawson explained. "He knew
Pater and Oscar Wilde, and he knows Mallarme and all those
fellows."

The object of their search sat in the most sheltered corner of
the cafe, with his coat on and the collar turned up. He wore his
hat pressed well down on his forehead so that he should avoid
cold air. He was a big man, stout but not obese, with a round
face, a small moustache, and little, rather stupid eyes. His
head did not seem quite big enough for his body. It looked like
a pea uneasily poised on an egg. He was playing dominoes with a
Frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he did
not speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the
little pile of saucers on the table which indicated the number
of drinks he had already consumed. He nodded to Philip when he
was introduced to him, and went on with the game. Philip's
knowledge of the language was small, but he knew enough to tell
that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for several years,
spoke French execrably.

At last he leaned back with a smile of triumph.

"_Je vous ai battu_," he said, with an abominable accent.
"_Garcong!_"

He called the waiter and turned to Philip.

"Just out from England? See any cricket?"

Philip was a little confused at the unexpected question.

"Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for
the last twenty years," said Lawson, smiling.

The Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and
Cronshaw, with the lazy enunciation which was one of his
peculiarities, began to discourse on the relative merits of Kent
and Lancashire. He told them of the last test match he had seen
and described the course of the game wicket by wicket.

"That's the only thing I miss in Paris," he said, as he finished
the _bock_ which the waiter had brought. "You don't get any
cricket."

Philip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anxious to show
off one of the celebrities of the Quarter, grew impatient.
Cronshaw was taking his time to wake up that evening, though the
saucers at his side indicated that he had at least made an
honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton watched the scene with
amusement. He fancied there was something of affectation in
Cronshaw's minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise
people by talking to them of things that obviously bored them;
Clutton threw in a question.

"Have you seen Mallarme lately?"

Cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry
over in his mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble
table with one of the saucers.

"Bring my bottle of whiskey," he called out. He turned again to
Philip. "I keep my own bottle of whiskey. I can't afford to pay
fifty centimes for every thimbleful."

The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the
light.

"They've been drinking it. Waiter, who's been helping himself to
my whiskey?"

"_Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw_."

"I made a mark on it last night, and look at it."

"Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At
that rate Monsieur wastes his time in making marks."

The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately.
Cronshaw gazed at him.

"If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a
gentleman that nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I'll
accept your statement."

This remark, translated literally into the crudest French,
sounded very funny, and the lady at the _comptoir_ could not
help laughing.

"_Il est impayable_," she murmured.

Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was
stout, matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand
to her. She shrugged her shoulders.

"Fear not, madam," he said heavily. "I have passed the age when
I am tempted by forty-five and gratitude."

He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank
it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"He talked very well."

Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw's remark was an answer to
the question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the
gatherings on Tuesday evenings when the poet received men of
letters and painters, and discoursed with subtle oratory on any
subject that was suggested to him. Cronshaw had evidently been
there lately.

"He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked about
art as though it were the most important thing in the world."

"If it isn't, what are we here for?" asked Philip.

"What you're here for I don't know. It is no business of mine.
But art is a luxury. Men attach importance only to
self-preservation and the propagation of their species. It is
only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to
occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for
them by writers, painters, and poets."

Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for
twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made
him talk or whether he loved conversation because it made him
thirsty.

Then he said: "I wrote a poem yesterday."

Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking
the rhythm with an extended forefinger. It was possibly a very
fine poem, but at that moment a young woman came in. She had
scarlet lips, and it was plain that the vivid colour of her
cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she had blackened
her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold
blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the
eyes. It was fantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over
her ears in the fashion made popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode.
Philip's eyes wandered to her, and Cronshaw, having finished the
recitation of his verses, smiled upon him indulgently.

"You were not listening," he said.

"Oh yes, I was."

"I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of
the statement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect
and applaud your indifference to fine poetry when you can
contemplate the meretricious charms of this young person."

She passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took
her arm.

"Come and sit by my side, dear child, and let us play the divine
comedy of love."

"_Fichez-moi la paix_," she said, and pushing him on one side
continued her perambulation.

"Art," he continued, with a wave of the hand, "is merely the
refuge which the ingenious have invented, when they were
supplied with food and women, to escape the tediousness of
life."

Cronshaw filled his glass again, and began to talk at length. He
spoke with rotund delivery. He chose his words carefully. He
mingled wisdom and nonsense in the most astounding manner,
gravely making fun of his hearers at one moment, and at the next
playfully giving them sound advice. He talked of art, and
literature, and life. He was by turns devout and obscene, merry
and lachrymose. He grew remarkably drunk, and then he began to
recite poetry, his own and Milton's, his own and Shelley's, his
own and Kit Marlowe's.

At last Lawson, exhausted, got up to go home.

"I shall go too," said Philip.

Clutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening,
with a sardonic smile on his lips, to Cronshaw's maunderings.
Lawson accompanied Philip to his hotel and then bade him
good-night. But when Philip got to bed he could not sleep. All
these new ideas that had been flung before him carelessly
seethed in his brain. He was tremendously excited. He felt in
himself great powers. He had never before been so
self-confident.

"I know I shall be a great artist," he said to himself. "I feel
it in me."

A thrill passed through him as another thought came, but even to
himself he would not put it into words:

"By George, I believe I've got genius."

He was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one
glass of beer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous
intoxicant than alcohol.


CHAPTER XLIII

ON TUESDAYS and Fridays masters spent the morning at Amitrano's,
criticising the work done. In France the painter earns little
unless he paints portraits and is patronised by rich Americans;
and men of reputation are glad to increase their incomes by
spending two or three hours once a week at one of the numerous
studios where art is taught. Tuesday was the day upon which
Michel Rollin came to Amitrano's. He was an elderly man, with a
white beard and a florid complexion, who had painted a number of
decorations for the State, but these were an object of derision
to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of Ingres,
impervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with
that _tas de farceurs_ whose names were Manet, Degas, Monet,
and Sisley; but he was an excellent teacher, helpful, polite,
and encouraging. Foinet, on the other hand, who visited the
studio on Fridays, was a difficult man to get on with. He was a
small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air, an
untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his
tone sarcastic. He had had pictures bought by the Luxembourg,
and at twenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his
talent was due to youth rather than to personality, and for
twenty years he had done nothing but repeat the landscape which
had brought him his early success. When he was reproached with
monotony, he answered:

"Corot only painted one thing. Why shouldn't I?"

He was envious of everyone else's success, and had a peculiar,
personal loathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his
own failure as due to the mad fashion which had attracted the
public, _sale bete_, to their works. The genial disdain of
Michel Rollin, who called them impostors, was answered by him
with vituperation, of which _crapule_ and _canaille_ were
the least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their
private lives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and
obscene detail, attacked the legitimacy of their births and the
purity of their conjugal relations: he used an Oriental imagery
and an Oriental emphasis to accentuate his ribald scorn. Nor did
he conceal his contempt for the students whose work he examined.
By them he was hated and feared; the women by his brutal sarcasm
he reduced often to tears, which again aroused his ridicule; and
he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protests of those
who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there could
be no doubt that he was one of the best masters in Paris.
Sometimes the old model who kept the school ventured to
remonstrate with him, but his expostulations quickly gave way
before the violent insolence of the painter to abject apologies.

It was Foinet with whom Philip first came in contact. He was
already in the studio when Philip arrived. He went round from
easel to easel, with Mrs. Otter, the _massiere_, by his side
to interpret his remarks for the benefit of those who could not
understand French. Fanny Price, sitting next to Philip, was
working feverishly. Her face was sallow with nervousness, and
every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on her blouse;
for they were hot with anxiety. Suddenly she turned to Philip
with an anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown.

"D'you think it's good?" she asked, nodding at her drawing.

Philip got up and looked at it. He was astounded; he felt she
must have no eye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of
drawing.

"I wish I could draw half as well myself," he answered.

"You can't expect to, you've only just come. It's a bit too much
to expect that you should draw as well as I do. I've been here
two years."

Fanny Price puzzled Philip. Her conceit was stupendous. Philip
had already discovered that everyone in the studio cordially
disliked her; and it was no wonder, for she seemed to go out of
her way to wound people.

"I complained to Mrs. Otter about Foinet," she said now. "The
last two weeks he hasn't looked at my drawings. He spends about
half an hour on Mrs. Otter because she's the _massiere_. After
all I pay as much as anybody else, and I suppose my money's as
good as theirs. I don't see why I shouldn't get as much
attention as anybody else."

She took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with
a groan.

"I can't do any more now. I'm so frightfully nervous."

She looked at Foinet, who was coming towards them with Mrs.
Otter. Mrs. Otter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an
air of importance. Foinet sat down at the easel of an untidy
little Englishwoman called Ruth Chalice. She had the fine black
eyes, languid but passionate, the thin face, ascetic but
sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under the influence of
Burne-Jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies in
Chelsea. Foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much
to her, but with quick, determined strokes of her charcoal
pointed out her errors. Miss Chalice beamed with pleasure when
he rose. He came to Clutton, and by this time Philip was nervous
too but Mrs. Otter had promised to make things easy for him.
Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton's work, biting his
thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas
the little piece of skin which he had bitten off.

"That's a fine line," he said at last, indicating with his thumb
what pleased him. "You're beginning to learn to draw."

Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual
air of sardonic indifference to the world's opinion.

"I'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent."

Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did
not see anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and
went into technical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of
standing. Clutton did not say anything, but nodded now and then,
and Foinet felt with satisfaction that he grasped what he said
and the reasons of it; most of them listened to him, but it was
clear they never understood. Then Foinet got up and came to
Philip.

"He only arrived two days ago," Mrs. Otter hurried to explain.
"He's a beginner. He's never studied before."

"_Ca se voit_," the master said. "One sees that."

He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him:

"This is the young lady I told you about."

He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and
his voice grew more rasping.

"It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you.
You have been complaining to the _massiere_. Well, show me
this work to which you wish me to give attention."

Fanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed
to be of a strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the
drawing on which she had been at work since the beginning of the
week. Foinet sat down.

"Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell
you it is good? It isn't. Do you wish me to tell you it is well
drawn? It isn't. Do you wish me to say it has merit? It hasn't.
Do you wish me to show you what is wrong with it? It is all
wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to do with it? Tear it
up. Are you satisfied now?"

Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had
said all this before Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France
so long and could understand French well enough, she could
hardly speak two words.

"He's got no right to treat me like that. My money's as good as
anyone else's. I pay him to teach me. That's not teaching me."

"What does she say? What does she say?" asked Foinet.

Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in
execrable French.

"_Je vous paye Pour m'apprendre_."

His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his
fist.

"_Mais, nom de Dieu_, I can't teach you. I could more easily
teach a camel." He turned to Mrs. Otter. "Ask her, does she do
this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?"

"I'm going to earn my living as an artist," Miss Price answered.

"Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time.
It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run
about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning
of an aptitude. How long have you been here? A child of five
after two lessons would draw better than you do. I only say one
thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. You're more likely
to earn your living as a _bonne a tout faire_ than as a
painter. Look."

He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to
the paper. He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines.
He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the
words with venom.

"Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it's
grotesque. I tell you a child of five. You see, she's not
standing on her legs. That foot!"

With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the
drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager
trouble was unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At
last he flung down the charcoal and stood up.

"Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking." He looked at
his watch. "It's twelve. _A la semaine Prochaine, messieurs_."

Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind
after the others to say to her something consolatory. He could
think of nothing but:

"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!"

She turned on him savagely.

"Is that what you're waiting about for? When I want your
sympathy I'll ask for it. Please get out of my way."

She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug
of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier's for luncheon.

"It served her right," said Lawson, when Philip told him what
had happened. "Ill-tempered slut."

Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid
it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming.

"I don't want other people's opinion of my work," he said. "I
know myself if it's good or bad."

"You mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your
work," answered Clutton dryly.

In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to
see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny
Price sitting in her accustomed seat. He was sore at the
rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say
something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight
of her. But she got up at once and came towards him.

"Are you trying to cut me?" she said.

"No, of course not. I thought perhaps you didn't want to be
spoken to."

"Where are you going?"

"I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I've heard so much about
it."

"Would you like me to come with you? I know the Luxembourg
rather well. I could show you one or two good things."

He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise
directly, she made this offer as amends.

"It's awfully kind of you. I should like it very much."

"You needn't say yes if you'd rather go alone," she said
suspiciously.

"I wouldn't."

They walked towards the gallery. Caillebotte's collection had
lately been placed on view, and the student for the first time
had the opportunity to examine at his ease the works of the
impressionists. Till then it had been possible to see them only
at Durand-Ruel's shop in the Rue Lafitte (and the dealer, unlike
his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter an
attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the
shabbiest student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private
house, to which it was not difficult to get a card of admission
on Tuesdays, and where you might see pictures of world-wide
reputation. Miss Price led Philip straight up to Manet's
_Olympia_. He looked at it in astonished silence.

"Do you like it?" asked Miss Price.

"I don't know," he answered helplessly.

"You can take it from me that it's the best thing in the gallery
except perhaps Whistler's portrait of his mother."

She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and
then took him to a picture representing a railway-station.

"Look, here's a Monet," she said. "It's the Gare St. Lazare."

"But the railway lines aren't parallel," said Philip.

"What does that matter?" she asked, with a haughty air.

Philip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked up the
glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing
Philip with the extent of her knowledge. She proceeded to
explain the pictures to him, superciliously but not without
insight, and showed him what the painters had attempted and what
he must look for. She talked with much gesticulation of the
thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new, listened with
profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshipped
Watts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the
affected drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his
aesthetic sensibilities. Their vague idealism, the suspicion of
a philosophical idea which underlay the titles they gave their
pictures, accorded very well with the functions of art as from
his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here was
something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the
contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer
and a higher life. He was puzzled.

At last he said: "You know, I'm simply dead. I don't think I can
absorb anything more profitably. Let's go and sit down on one of
the benches."

"It's better not to take too much art at a time," Miss Price
answered.

When they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she
had taken.

"Oh, that's all right," she said, a little ungraciously. "I do
it because I enjoy it. We'll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you
like, and then I'll take you to Durand-Ruel's."

"You're really awfully good to me."

"You don't think me such a beast as the most of them do."

"I don't," he smiled.

"They think they'll drive me away from the studio; but they
won't; I shall stay there just exactly as long as it suits me.
All that this morning, it was Lucy Otter's doing, I know it was.
She always has hated me. She thought after that I'd take myself
off. I daresay she'd like me to go. She's afraid I know too much
about her."

Miss Price told him a long, involved story, which made out that
Mrs. Otter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had
scabrous intrigues. Then she talked of Ruth Chalice, the girl
whom Foinet had praised that morning.

"She's been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She's
nothing better than a street-walker. And she's dirty. She hasn't
had a bath for a month. I know it for a fact."

Philip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various
rumours were in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was
ridiculous to suppose that Mrs. Otter, living with her mother,
was anything but rigidly virtuous. The woman walking by his side
with her malignant lying positively horrified him.

"I don't care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know
I've got it in me. I feel I'm an artist. I'd sooner kill myself
than give it up. Oh, I shan't be the first they've all laughed
at in the schools and then he's turned out the only genius of
the lot. Art's the only thing I care for, I'm willing to give my
whole life to it. It's only a question of sticking to it and
pegging away"

She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take
her at her own estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She
told Philip that his friend had no talent really; it was just
flashy and superficial; he couldn't compose a figure to save his
life. And Lawson:

"Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He's so
afraid of Foinet that he won't let him see his work. After all,
I don't funk it, do I? I don't care what Foinet says to me, I
know I'm a real artist."

They reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of
relief Philip left her.


CHAPTER XLIV

BUT notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday
offered to take him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed
him Mona Lisa. He looked at it with a slight feeling of
disappointment, but he had read till he knew by heart the
jewelled words with which Walter Pater has added beauty to the
most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated to
Miss Price.

"That's all literature," she said, a little contemptuously. "You
must get away from that."

She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate
things about them. She stood in front of the _Disciples at
Emmaus_.

"When you feel the beauty of that," she said, "you'll know
something about painting."

She showed him the _Odalisque_ and _La Source_ of Ingres.
Fanny Price was a peremptory guide, she would not let him look
at the things he wished, and attempted to force his admiration
for all she admired. She was desperately in earnest with her
study of art, and when Philip, passing in the Long Gallery a
window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny, and urbane,
like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed:

"I say, how jolly! Do let's stop here a minute."

She said, indifferently: "Yes, it's all right. But we've come
here to look at pictures."

The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when
towards mid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the
Louvre, he felt inclined to cry like Flanagan: To hell with art.

"I say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the Boul'
Mich' and have a snack together, shall we?" he suggested.

Miss Price gave him a suspicious look.

"I've got my lunch waiting for me at home," she answered.

"That doesn't matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand
you a lunch."

"I don't know why you want to."

"It would give me pleasure," he replied, smiling.

They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St.
Michel there was a restaurant.

"Let's go in there."

"No, I won't go there, it looks too expensive."

She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few
steps brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people
were already lunching on the pavement under an awning; on the
window was announced in large white letters: _Dejeuner 1.25,
vin compris_.

"We couldn't have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite
all right."

They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette
which was the first article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed
with delight upon the passers-by. His heart went out to them. He
was tired but very happy.

"I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn't he ripping!"

He glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she
was looking down at her plate, regardless of the passing
spectacle, and two heavy tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"What on earth's the matter?" he exclaimed.

"If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once," she
answered.

He was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the
omelette came. He divided it in two and they began to eat.
Philip did his best to talk of indifferent things, and it seemed
as though Miss Price were making an effort on her side to be
agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a success. Philip
was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate took his
appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild
beast in a menagerie, and after she had finished each course
rubbed the plate with pieces of bread till it was white and
shining, as if she did not wish to lose a single drop of gravy.
They had Camembert cheese, and it disgusted Philip to see that
she ate rind and all of the portion that was given her. She
could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving.

Miss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one
day with friendliness he could never tell whether on the next
she would not be sulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal
from her: though she could not draw well herself, she knew all
that could be taught, and her constant suggestions helped his
progress. Mrs. Otter was useful to him too, and sometimes Miss
Chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glib loquacity
of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hated
him to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he
asked her help after someone else had been talking to him she
would refuse with brutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson,
Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed him about her.

"You be careful, my lad," they said, "she's in love with you."

"Oh, what nonsense," he laughed.

The thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was
preposterous. It made him shudder when he thought of her
uncomeliness, the bedraggled hair and the dirty hands, the brown
dress she always wore, stained and ragged at the hem: he
supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but she might
at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and
thread to make her skirt tidy.

Philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown
in contact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which
now seemed so long ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a
more deliberate interest in humanity, he was inclined to examine
and to criticise. He found it difficult to know Clutton any
better after seeing him every day for three months than on the
first day of their acquaintance. The general impression at the
studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do
great things, and he shared the general opinion; but what
exactly he was going to do neither he nor anybody else quite
knew. He had worked at several studios before Amitrano's, at
Julian's, the Beaux Arts, and MacPherson's, and was remaining
longer at Amitrano's than anywhere because he found himself more
left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlike most
of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave
advice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue
Campagne Premiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room,
he had wonderful pictures which would make his reputation if
only he could be induced to exhibit them. He could not afford a
model but painted still life, and Lawson constantly talked of a
plate of apples which he declared was a masterpiece. He was
fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quite fully
grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole:
perhaps a part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot
of a figure, a glass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut
this out and keep it, destroying the rest of the canvas; so that
when people invited themselves to see his work he could
truthfully answer that he had not a single picture to show. In
Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else had heard
of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up
painting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his
work. He was turning his back on the impressionists and working
out for himself painfully an individual way not only of painting
but of seeing. Philip felt in him something strangely original.

At Gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the
Versailles or at the Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to
taciturnity. He sat quietly, with a sardonic expression on his
gaunt face, and spoke only when the opportunity occurred to
throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was most cheerful when
someone was there on whom he could exercise his sarcasm. He
seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the
one or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered
whether there was in him really anything: his reticence, the
haggard look of him, the pungent humour, seemed to suggest
personality, but might be no more than an effective mask which
covered nothing.

With Lawson on the other hand Philip Soon grew intimate. He had
a variety of interests which made him an agreeable companion. He
read more than most of the students and though his income was
small, loved to buy books. He lent them willingly; and Philip
became acquainted with Flaubert and Balzac, with Verlaine,
Heredia, and Villiers de l'Isle Adam. They went to plays
together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opera Comique.
There was the Odeon quite near them, and Philip Soon shared his
friend's passion for the tragedians of Louis XIV and the
sonorous Alexandrine. In the Rue Taitbout were the Concerts
Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they could hear excellent
music and get into the bargain something which it was quite
possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was
crowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in
their young enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they
went to the Bal Bullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied
them. His excitability and his roisterous enthusiasm made them
laugh. He was an excellent dancer, and before they had been ten
minutes in the room he was prancing round with some little
shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made.

The desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of
the paraphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave
consideration in the eyes of one's fellows. It was something to
boast about. But the difficulty was that they had scarcely
enough money to keep themselves, and though they argued that
French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two then
one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were
willing to take that view of the circumstances. They had to
content themselves for the most part with envying and abusing
the ladies who received protection from painters of more settled
respectability than their own. It was extraordinary how
difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson would become
acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for
twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the
charmer at length to everyone he met; but she never by any
chance turned up at the time fixed. He would come to Gravier's
very late, ill-tempered, and exclaim:

"Confound it, another rabbit! I don't know why it is they don't
like me. I suppose it's because I don't speak French well, or my
red hair. It's too sickening to have spent over a year in Paris
without getting hold of anyone."

"You don't go the right way to work," said Flanagan.

He had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and
though they took leave not to believe all he said, evidence
forced them to acknowledge that he did not altogether lie. But
he sought no permanent arrangement. He only had two years in
Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come and study art
instead of going to college; but at the end of that period he
was to return to Seattle and go into his father's business. He
had made up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the
time, and demanded variety rather than duration in his love
affairs.

"I don't know how you get hold of them," said Lawson furiously.

"There's no difficulty about that, sonny," answered Flanagan.
"You just go right in. The difficulty is to get rid of them.
That's where you want tact."

Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was
reading, the plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to
trouble himself with the desire for female society. He thought
there would be plenty of time for that when he could speak
French more glibly.

It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson,
and during his first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to
answer a letter she had written to him just before he left
Blackstable. When another came, knowing it would be full of
reproaches and not being just then in the mood for them, he put
it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did not
run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out
a drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked
at the unopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss
Wilkinson had suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a
brute; but she had probably got over the suffering by now, at
all events the worst of it. It suggested itself to him that
women were often very emphatic in their expressions. These did
not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his
mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had
not written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to
write now. He made up his mind not to read the letter.

"I daresay she won't write again," he said to himself. "She
can't help seeing the thing's over. After all, she was old
enough to be my mother; she ought to have known better."

For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude
was obviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of
dissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson,
however, did not write again; nor did she, as he absurdly
feared, suddenly appear in Paris to make him ridiculous before
his friends. In a little while he clean forgot her.

Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with
which at first he had looked upon the works of the
impressionists, changed to admiration; and presently he found
himself talking as emphatically as the rest on the merits of
Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph of a drawing by
Ingres of the _Odalisque_ and a photograph of the _Olympia_.
They were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he
could contemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now
quite positively that there had been no painting of landscape
before Monet; and he felt a real thrill when he stood in front
of Rembrandt's _Disciples at Emmaus_ or Velasquez' _Lady
with the Flea-bitten Nose_. That was not her real name, but by
that she was distinguished at Gravier's to emphasise the
picture's beauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting
peculiarity of the sitter's appearance. With Ruskin,
Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside his bowler hat and the
neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on coming to
Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat,
a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked
along the Boulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it
all his life, and by virtuous perseverance he had learnt to
drink absinthe without distaste. He was letting his hair grow,
and it was only because Nature is unkind and has no regard for
the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt a beard.


CHAPTER XLV

PHILIP soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends
was Cronshaw's. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes;
and even Clutton, who strained after individuality, expressed
himself in the terms he had insensibly acquired from the older
man. It was his ideas that they bandied about at table, and on
his authority they formed their judgments. They made up for the
respect with which unconsciously they treated him by laughing at
his foibles and lamenting his vices.

"Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good," they
said. "He's quite hopeless."

They prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his
genius; and though, with the contempt of youth for the follies
of middle-age, they patronised him among themselves, they did
not fail to look upon it as a feather in their caps if he had
chosen a time when only one was there to be particularly
wonderful. Cronshaw never came to Gravier's. For the last four
years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only
Lawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of
one of the most dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands
Augustins: Lawson described with gusto the filth, the
untidiness, the litter.

"And the stink nearly blew your head off."

"Not at dinner, Lawson," expostulated one of the others.

But he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque
details of the odours which met his nostril. With a fierce
delight in his own realism he described the woman who had opened
the door for him. She was dark, small, and fat, quite young,
with black hair that seemed always on the point of coming down.
She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets. With her red
cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she
reminded you of the _Bohemienne_ in the Louvre by Franz Hals.
She had a flaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. A
scrubby, unwashed baby was playing on the floor. It was known
that the slut deceived Cronshaw with the most worthless
ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was a mystery to the
ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table that
Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty
could ally himself to such a creature. But he seemed to revel in
the coarseness of her language and would often report some
phrase which reeked of the gutter. He referred to her ironically
as _la fille de mon concierge_. Cronshaw was very poor. He
earned a bare subsistence by writing on the exhibitions of
pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a certain
amount of translating. He had been on the staff of an English
paper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still
however did odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel
Drouot or the revues at music-halls. The life of Paris had got
into his bones, and he would not change it, notwithstanding its
squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any other in the world. He
remained there all through the year, even in summer when
everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within
a mile of the Boulevard St. Michel. But the curious thing was
that he had never learnt to speak French passably, and he kept
in his shabby clothes bought at _La Belle Jardiniere_ an
ineradicably English appearance.

He was a man who would have made a success of life a century and
a half ago when conversation was a passport to good company and
inebriety no bar.

"I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds," he said
himself. "What I want is a patron. I should have published my
poems by subscription and dedicated them to a nobleman. I long
to compose rhymed couplets upon the poodle of a countess. My
soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the conversation
of bishops."

He quoted the romantic Rolla,

"_Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux_."

He liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to
achieve the difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest
conversation and not too much to prevent monologue. Philip was
captivated. He did not realise that little that Cronshaw said
was new. His personality in conversation had a curious power. He
had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner of putting
things which was irresistible to youth. All he said seemed to
excite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip
would walk to and from one another's hotels, discussing some
point which a chance word of Cronshaw had suggested. It was
disconcerting to Philip, who had a youthful eagerness for
results, that Cronshaw's poetry hardly came up to expectation.
It had never been published in a volume, but most of it had
appeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion
Cronshaw brought down a bundle of pages torn out of _The
Yellow Book_, _The Saturday Review_, and other journals, on
each of which was a poem. Philip was taken aback to find that
most of them reminded him either of Henley or of Swinburne. It
needed the splendour of Cronshaw's delivery to make them
personal. He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who
carelessly repeated his words; and next time Philip went to the
Closerie des Lilas the poet turned to him with his sleek smile:

"I hear you don't think much of my verses."

Philip was embarrassed.

"I don't know about that," he answered. "I enjoyed reading them
very much."

"Do not attempt to spare my feelings," returned Cronshaw, with
a wave of his fat hand. "I do not attach any exaggerated
importance to my poetical works. Life is there to be lived
rather than to be written about. My aim is to search out the
manifold experience that it offers, wringing from each moment
what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as a
graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds
pleasure to existence. And as for posterity--damn posterity."

Philip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in
life had produced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked
at him meditatively and filled his glass. He sent the waiter for
a packet of cigarettes.

"You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that
I am poor and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who
deceives me with hair-dressers and _garcons de cafe_; I
translate wretched books for the British public, and write
articles upon contemptible pictures which deserve not even to be
abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of life?"

"I say, that's rather a difficult question. Won't you give the
answer yourself?"

"No, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. But
what do you suppose you are in the world for?"

Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment
before replying.

"Oh, I don't know: I suppose to do one's duty, and make the best
possible use of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other
people."

"In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto
you?"

"I suppose so."

"Christianity."

"No, it isn't," said Philip indignantly. "It has nothing to do
with Christianity. It's just abstract morality."

"But there's no such thing as abstract morality."

"In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left
your purse behind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do
you imagine that I should return it to you? It's not the fear of
the police."

"It's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you
are virtuous."

"But I believe in neither."

"That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical
Imperative. You have thrown aside a creed, but you have
preserved the ethic which was based upon it. To all intents you
are a Christian still, and if there is a God in Heaven you will
undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty can hardly be such
a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I don't
think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or
not."

"But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to
me," said Philip.

"Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of
the police."

"It's a thousand to one that the police would never find out."

"My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the
fear of the police has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my
_concierge_ would not hesitate for a moment. You answer that
she belongs to the criminal classes; not at all, she is merely
devoid of vulgar prejudice."

"But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and
decency and everything," said Philip.

"Have you ever committed a sin?"

"I don't know, I suppose so," answered Philip.

"You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never
committed a sin."

Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up,
and his hat well down on his head, with his red fat face and his
little gleaming eyes, looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip
was too much in earnest to laugh.

"Have you never done anything you regret?"

"How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?" asked
Cronshaw in return.

"But that's fatalism."

"The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply
rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a
free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all
the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause
it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was
inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad
I can accept no censure."

"My brain reels," said Philip.

"Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle.
"There's nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect
to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer."

Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:

"You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs
conversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he
was taking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak
conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words. I refuse to
make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some
and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no
signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept.
I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world."

"But there are one or two other people in the world," objected
Philip.

"I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my
activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and each one
for himself is the centre of the universe. My right over them
extends only as far as my power. What I can do is the only limit
of what I may do. Because we are gregarious we live in society,
and society holds together by means of force, force of arms
(that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is
Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on
the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation.
It is might against might. I stand alone, bound to accept
society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes I pay
it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another
stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws because I must; I
do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice, I only
know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects
me and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force,
served in the army which guards my house and land from the
invader, I am quits with society: for the rest I counter its
might with my wiliness. It makes laws for its self-preservation,
and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might
to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I will
accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as
punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing.
Society tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the
good opinion of my fellows; but I am indifferent to their good
opinion, I despise honours and I can do very well without
riches."

"But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at
once."

"I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with
myself. I take advantage of the fact that the majority of
mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which directly
or indirectly tend to my convenience."

"It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things,"
said Philip.

"But are you under the impression that men ever do anything
except for selfish reasons?"

"Yes."

"It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow
older that the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable
place to live in is to recognise the inevitable selfishness of
humanity. You demand unselfishness from others, which is a
preposterous claim that they should sacrifice their desires to
yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled to the fact that
each is for himself in the world you will ask less from your
fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon
them more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life--their
pleasure."

"No, no, no!" cried Philip.

Cronshaw chuckled.

"You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which
your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a
hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder,
and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of
duty, charity, and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of
the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality
despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying.
You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of happiness
instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind
wanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak
of pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know
that they aim at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the
practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions
because they are good for him, and when they are good for other
people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure
in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping
others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for
society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private
pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for
my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I,
less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my
pleasure nor demand your admiration."

"But have you never known people do things they didn't want to
instead of things they did?"

"No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean is that
people accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate
pleasure. The objection is as foolish as your manner of putting
it. It is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than an
immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater
pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but
their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are
puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are
only of the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country
dies because he likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage
because he likes it. It is a law of creation. If it were
possible for men to prefer pain to pleasure the human race would
have long since become extinct."

"But if all that is true," cried Philip, "what is the use of
anything? If you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are
we brought into the world?"

"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled
Cronshaw.

He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of
the cafe, and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were
Levantines, itinerant vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on
his arm a bundle. It was Sunday evening, and the cafe was very
full. They passed among the tables, and in that atmosphere heavy
and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they
seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in European,
shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each
wore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of
middle age, with a black beard, but the other was a youth of
eighteen, with a face deeply scarred by smallpox and with one
eye only. They passed by Cronshaw and Philip.

"Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw
impressively.

The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to
blows. With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick
surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture.

"Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from
far Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder
one-eyed youth, do I see in him one of the three kings of whom
Scheherazade told stories to her lord?"

The pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood
no word of what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced
a sandalwood box.

"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms," quoth
Cronshaw. "For I would point a moral and adorn a tale."

The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar,
hideous, and grotesque.

"Thirty-five francs," he said.

"O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and
those colours were never made in the vats of Bokhara."

"Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously.

"Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham
the place of my birth."

"Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man.

"Get thee gone, fellow," said Cronshaw. "May wild asses defile
the grave of thy maternal grandmother."

Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine passed with
his wares to another table. Cronshaw turned to Philip.

"Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see
Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the
beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the eye. In
them you will see the mystery and the sensual beauty of the
East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of Omar; but presently
you will see more. You were asking just now what was the meaning
of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of these
days the answer will come to you."

"You are cryptic," said Philip.

"I am drunk," answered Cronshaw.


CHAPTER XLVI

PHILIP did not find living in Paris as cheap as he had been led
to believe and by February had spent most of the money with
which he started. He was too proud to appeal to his guardian,
nor did he wish Aunt Louisa to know that his circumstances were
straitened, since he was certain she would make an effort to
send him something from her own pocket, and he knew how little
she could afford to. In three months he would attain his
majority and come into possession of his small fortune. He tided
over the interval by selling the few trinkets which he had
inherited from his father.

At about this time Lawson suggested that they should take a
small studio which was vacant in one of the streets that led out
of the Boulevard Raspail. It was very cheap. It had a room
attached, which they could use as a bed-room; and since Philip
was at the school every morning Lawson could have the
undisturbed use of the studio then; Lawson, after wandering from
school to school, had come to the conclusion that he could work
best alone, and proposed to get a model in three or four days a
week. At first Philip hesitated on account of the expense, but
they reckoned it out; and it seemed (they were so anxious to
have a studio of their own that they calculated pragmatically)
that the cost would not be much greater than that of living in
a hotel. Though the rent and the cleaning by the _concierge_
would come to a little more, they would save on the _petit
dejeuner_, which they could make themselves. A year or two
earlier Philip would have refused to share a room with anyone,
since he was so sensitive about his deformed foot, but his
morbid way of looking at it was growing less marked: in Paris it
did not seem to matter so much, and, though he never by any
chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other people
were constantly noticing it.

They moved in, bought a couple of beds, a washing-stand, a few
chairs, and felt for the first time the thrill of possession.
They were so excited that the first night they went to bed in
what they could call a home they lay awake talking till three in
the morning; and next day found lighting the fire and making
their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such a jolly
business that Philip did not get to Amitrano's till nearly
eleven. He was in excellent spirits. He nodded to Fanny Price.

"How are you getting on?" he asked cheerily.

"What does that matter to you?" she asked in reply.

Philip could not help laughing.

"Don't jump down my throat. I was only trying to make myself
polite."

"I don't want your politeness."

"D'you think it's worth while quarrelling with me too?" asked
Philip mildly. "There are so few people you're on speaking terms
with, as it is."

"That's my business, isn't it?"

"Quite."

He began to work, vaguely wondering why Fanny Price made herself
so disagreeable. He had come to the conclusion that he
thoroughly disliked her. Everyone did. People were only civil to
her at all from fear of the malice of her tongue; for to their
faces and behind their backs she said abominable things. But
Philip was feeling so happy that he did not want even Miss Price
to bear ill-feeling towards him. He used the artifice which had
often before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour.

"I say, I wish you'd come and look at my drawing. I've got in an
awful mess."

"Thank you very much, but I've got something better to do with
my time."

Philip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing she could be
counted upon to do with alacrity was to give advice. She went on
quickly in a low voice, savage with fury.

"Now that Lawson's gone you think you'll put up with me. Thank
you very much. Go and find somebody else to help you. I don't
want anybody else's leavings."

Lawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found anything
out he was eager to impart it; and because he taught with
delight he talked with profit. Philip, without thinking anything
about it, had got into the habit of sitting by his side; it
never occurred to him that Fanny Price was consumed with
jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else's tuition
with ever-increasing anger.

"You were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody
here," she said bitterly, "and as soon as you made friends with
other people you threw me aside, like an old glove"--she
repeated the stale metaphor with satisfaction--"like an old
glove. All right, I don't care, but I'm not going to be made a
fool of another time."

There was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made
Philip angry enough to answer what first came into his head.

"Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw it pleased
you."

She gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. Then two
tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy and grotesque.
Philip, not knowing what on earth this new attitude implied,
went back to his work. He was uneasy and conscience-stricken;
but he would not go to her and say he was sorry if he had caused
her pain, because he was afraid she would take the opportunity
to snub him. For two or three weeks she did not speak to him,
and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by
her, he was somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a
friendship. He had been a little disconcerted by the air of
proprietorship she assumed over him. She was an extraordinary
woman. She came every day to the studio at eight o'clock, and
was ready to start working when the model was in position; she
worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour after hour
with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the
clock struck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not in it
the smallest approach even to the mediocre achievement at which
most of the young persons were able after some months to arrive.
She wore every day the same ugly brown dress, with the mud of
the last wet day still caked on the hem and with the raggedness,
which Philip had noticed the first time he saw her, still
unmended.

But one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked
whether she might speak to him afterwards.

"Of course, as much as you like," smiled Philip. "I'll wait
behind at twelve."

He went to her when the day's work was over.

"Will you walk a little bit with me?" she said, looking away
from him with embarrassment.

"Certainly."

They walked for two or three minutes in silence.

"D'you remember what you said to me the other day?" she asked
then on a sudden.

"Oh, I say, don't let's quarrel," said Philip. "It really isn't
worth while."

She gave a quick, painful inspiration.

"I don't want to quarrel with you. You're the only friend I had
in Paris. I thought you rather liked me. I felt there was
something between us. I was drawn towards you--you know what I
mean, your club-foot."

Philip reddened and instinctively tried to walk without a limp.
He did not like anyone to mention the deformity. He knew what
Fanny Price meant. She was ugly and uncouth, and because he was
deformed there was between them a certain sympathy. He was very
angry with her, but he forced himself not to speak.

"You said you only asked my advice to please me. Don't you think
my work's any good?"

"I've only seen your drawing at Amitrano's. It's awfully hard to
judge from that."

"I was wondering if you'd come and look at my other work. I've
never asked anyone else to look at it. I should like to show it
to you."

"It's awfully kind of you. I'd like to see it very much."

"I live quite near here," she said apologetically. "It'll only
take you ten minutes."

"Oh, that's all right," he said.

They were walking along the boulevard, and she turned down a
side street, then led him into another, poorer still, with cheap
shops on the ground floor, and at last stopped. They climbed
flight after flight of stairs. She unlocked a door, and they
went into a tiny attic with a sloping roof and a small window.
This was closed and the room had a musty smell. Though it was
very cold there was no fire and no sign that there had been one.
The bed was unmade. A chair, a chest of drawers which served
also as a wash-stand, and a cheap easel, were all the furniture.
The place would have been squalid enough in any case, but the
litter, the untidiness, made the impression revolting. On the
chimney-piece, scattered over with paints and brushes, were a
cup, a dirty plate, and a tea-pot.

"If you'll stand over there I'll put them on the chair so that
you can see them better."

She showed him twenty small canvases, about eighteen by twelve.
She placed them on the chair, one after the other, watching his
face; he nodded as he looked at each one.

"You do like them, don't you?" she said anxiously, after a bit.

"I just want to look at them all first," he answered. "I'll talk
afterwards."

He was collecting himself. He was panic-stricken. He did not
know what to say. It was not only that they were ill-drawn, or
that the colour was put on amateurishly by someone who had no
eye for it; but there was no attempt at getting the values, and
the perspective was grotesque. It looked like the work of a
child of five, but a child would have had some naivete and might
at least have made an attempt to put down what he saw; but here
was the work of a vulgar mind chock full of recollections of
vulgar pictures. Philip remembered that she had talked
enthusiastically about Monet and the Impressionists, but here
were only the worst traditions of the Royal Academy.

"There," she said at last, "that's the lot."

Philip was no more truthful than anybody else, but he had a
great difficulty in telling a thundering, deliberate lie, and he
blushed furiously when he answered:

"I think they're most awfully good."

A faint colour came into her unhealthy cheeks, and she smiled a
little.

"You needn't say so if you don't think so, you know. I want the
truth."

"But I do think so."

"Haven't you got any criticism to offer? There must be some you
don't like as well as others."

Philip looked round helplessly. He saw a landscape, the typical
picturesque `bit' of the amateur, an old bridge, a creeper-clad
cottage, and a leafy bank.

"Of course I don't pretend to know anything about it," he said.
"But I wasn't quite sure about the values of that."

She flushed darkly and taking up the picture quickly turned its
back to him.

"I don't know why you should have chosen that one to sneer at.
It's the best thing I've ever done. I'm sure my values are all
right. That's a thing you can't teach anyone, you either
understand values or you don't."

"I think they're all most awfully good," repeated Philip.

She looked at them with an air of self-satisfaction.

"I don't think they're anything to be ashamed of."

Philip looked at his watch.

"I say, it's getting late. Won't you let me give you a little
lunch?"

"I've got my lunch waiting for me here."

Philip saw no sign of it, but supposed perhaps the _concierge_
would bring it up when he was gone. He was in a hurry to get
away. The mustiness of the room made his head ache.


CHAPTER XLVII

IN MARCH there was all the excitement of sending in to the
Salon. Clutton, characteristically, had nothing ready, and he
was very scornful of the two heads that Lawson sent; they were
obviously the work of a student, straight-forward portraits of
models, but they had a certain force; Clutton, aiming at
perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayed
hesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told Lawson it was
an impertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been
allowed out of his studio; he was not less contemptuous when the
two heads were accepted. Flanagan tried his luck too, but his
picture was refused. Mrs. Otter sent a blameless _Portrait de
ma Mere_, accomplished and second-rate; and was hung in a very
good place.

Hayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg,
arrived in Paris to spend a few days in time to come to the
party which Lawson and Philip were giving in their studio to
celebrate the hanging of Lawson's pictures. Philip had been
eager to see Hayward again, but when at last they met, he
experienced some disappointment. Hayward had altered a little in
appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid
wilting of the very fair, he was becoming wizened and
colourless; his blue eyes were paler than they had been, and
there was a muzziness about his features. On the other hand, in
mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the culture
which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the
contempt of Philip at twenty-one. He had altered a good deal
himself, and regarding with scorn all his old opinions of art,
life, and letters, had no patience with anyone who still held
them. He was scarcely conscious of the fact that he wanted to
show off before Hayward, but when he took him round the
galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions
which himself had so recently adopted. He took him to Manet's
_Olympia_ and said dramatically:

"I would give all the old masters except Velasqued, Rembrandt,
and Vermeer for that one picture."

"Who was Vermeer?" asked Hayward.

"Oh, my dear fellow, don't you know Vermeer? You're not
civilised. You mustn't live a moment longer without making his
acquaintance. He's the one old master who painted like a
modern."

He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to
the Louvre.

"But aren't there any more pictures here?" asked Hayward, with
the tourist's passion for thoroughness.

"Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and look at them
by yourself with your Baedeker."

When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the
Long Gallery.

"I should like to see _The Gioconda_," said Hayward.

"Oh, my dear fellow, it's only literature," answered Philip.

At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before _The
Lacemaker_ of Vermeer van Delft.

"There, that's the best picture in the Louvre. It's exactly like
a Manet."

With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the
charming work. He used the jargon of the studios with
overpowering effect.

"I don't know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in
it," said Hayward.

"Of course it's a painter's picture," said Philip. "I can quite
believe the layman would see nothing much in it."

"The what?" said Hayward.

"The layman."

Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward
was extremely anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those
who did not venture to assert themselves, but with the
self-assertive he was very modest. He was impressed by Philip's
assurance, and accepted meekly Philip's implied suggestion that
the painter's arrogant claim to be the sole possible judge of
painting has anything but its impertinence to recommend it.

A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw,
making an exception in their favour, agreed to eat their food;
and Miss Chalice offered to come and cook for them. She took no
interest in her own sex and declined the suggestion that other
girls should be asked for her sake. Clutton, Flanagan, Potter,
and two others made up the party. Furniture was scarce, so the
model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to sit on
portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn't on the floor. The
feast consisted of a _pot-au-feu_, which Miss Chalice had
made, of a leg of mutton roasted round the corner and brought
round hot and savoury (Miss Chalice had cooked the potatoes, and
the studio was redolent of the carrots she had fried; fried
carrots were her specialty); and this was to be followed by
_poires flambees_, pears with burning brandy, which Cronshaw had
volunteered to make. The meal was to finish with an enormous
_fromage de Brie_, which stood near the window and added fragrant
odours to all the others which filled the studio. Cronshaw sat
in the place of honour on a Gladstone bag, with his legs curled
under him like a Turkish bashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the
young people who surrounded him. From force of habit, though the
small studio with the stove lit was very hot, he kept on his
great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowler hat: he
looked with satisfaction on the four large _fiaschi_ of
Chianti which stood in front of him in a row, two on each side
of a bottle of whiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair
Circassian guarded by four corpulent eunuchs. Hayward in order
to put the rest of them at their ease had clothed himself in a
tweed suit and a Trinity Hall tie. He looked grotesquely
British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and during
the soup they talked of the weather and the political situation.
There was a pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and
Miss Chalice lit a cigarette.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," she said suddenly.

With an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses
fell over her shoulders. She shook her head.

"I always feel more comfortable with my hair down."

With her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin,
and broad forehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by
Burne-Jones. She had long, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply
stained by nicotine. She wore sweeping draperies, mauve and
green. There was about her the romantic air of High Street,
Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an excellent
creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but
skin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a
shout of exultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the
leg of mutton and held it high above her, as though it were the
head of John the Baptist on a platter; and, the cigarette still
in her mouth, advanced with solemn, hieratic steps.

"Hail, daughter of Herodias," cried Cronshaw.

The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what
a hearty appetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter
sat on each side of her, and everyone knew that neither had
found her unduly coy. She grew tired of most people in six
weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat afterwards the
gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She bore
them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do
so, and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity.
Now and then she looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The
_poires flambees_ were a great success, partly because of the
brandy, and partly because Miss Chalice insisted that they
should be eaten with the cheese.

"I don't know whether it's perfectly delicious, or whether I'm
just going to vomit," she said, after she had thoroughly tried
the mixture.

Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any
untoward consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort.
Ruth Chalice, who could do nothing that was not deliberately
artistic, arranged herself in a graceful attitude by Cronshaw
and just rested her exquisite head on his shoulder. She looked
into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, and now and then
with a long meditative glance at Lawson she sighed deeply.


Then came the summer, and restlessness seized these young
people. The blue skies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant
breeze sighing through the leaves of the plane-trees on the
boulevard drew them towards the country. Everyone made plans for
leaving Paris; they discussed what was the most suitable size
for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores of
panels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various
places in Brittany. Flanagan and Potter went to Concarneau; Mrs.
Otter and her mother, with a natural instinct for the obvious,
went to Pont-Aven; Philip and Lawson made up their minds to go
to the forest of Fontainebleau, and Miss Chalice knew of a very
good hotel at Moret where there was lots of stuff to paint; it
was near Paris, and neither Philip nor Lawson was indifferent to
the railway fare. Ruth Chalice would be there, and Lawson had an
idea for a portrait of her in the open air. Just then the Salon
was full of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with
blinking eyes and green reflections of sunlit leaves on their
faces. They asked Clutton to go with them, but he preferred
spending the summer by himself. He had just discovered Cezanne,
and was uger to go to Provence; he wanted heavy skies from which
the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, and broad white
dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt the
colour, and olive trees gray with heat.

The day before they were to start, after the morning class,
Philip, putting his things together, spoke to Fanny Price.

"I'm off tomorrow," he said cheerfully.

"Off where?" she said quickly. "You're not going away?" Her face
fell.

"I'm going away for the summer. Aren't you?"

"No, I'm staying in Paris. I thought you were going to stay too.
I was looking forward...."

She stopped and shrugged her shoulders.

"But won't it be frightfully hot here? It's awfully bad for
you."

"Much you care if it's bad for me. Where are you going?"

"Moret."

"Chalice is going there. You're not going with her?"

"Lawson and I are going. And she's going there too. I don't know
that we're actually going together."

She gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and
red.

"How filthy! I thought you were a decent fellow. You were about
the only one here. She's been with Clutton and Potter and
Flanagan, even with old Foinet--that's why he takes so much
trouble about her--and now two of you, you and Lawson. It makes
me sick."

"Oh, what nonsense! She's a very decent sort. One treats her
just as if she were a man."

"Oh, don't speak to me, don't speak to me."

"But what can it matter to you?" asked Philip. "It's really no
business of yours where I spend my summer."

"I was looking forward to it so much," she gasped, speaking it
seemed almost to herself. "I didn't think you had the money to
go away, and there wouldn't have been anyone else here, and we
could have worked together, and we'd have gone to see things."
Then her thoughts flung back to Ruth Chalice. "The filthy
beast," she cried. "She isn't fit to speak to."

Philip looked at her with a sinking heart. He was not a man to
think girls were in love with him; he was too conscious of his
deformity, and he felt awkward and clumsy with women; but he did
not know what else this outburst could mean. Fanny Price, in the
dirty brown dress, with her hair falling over her face, sloppy,
untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled down her
cheeks. She was repellent. Philip glanced at the door,
instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end
to the scene.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said.

"You're just the same as all of them. You take all you can get,
and you don't even say thank you. I've taught you everything you
know. No one else would take any trouble with you. Has Foinet
ever bothered about you? And I can tell you this--you can work
here for a thousand years and you'll never do any good. You
haven't got any talent. You haven't got any originality. And
it's not only me--they all say it. You'll never be a painter as
long as you live."

"That is no business of yours either, is it?" said Philip,
flushing.

"Oh, you think it's only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask
Chalice. Never, never, never. You haven't got it in you."

Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after
him.

"Never, never, never."


Moret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at
the edge of the forest of Fontainebleau, and the _Ecu d'Or_
was a hotel which still had about it the decrepit air of the
_Ancien Regime_. It faced the winding river, the Loing; and Miss
Chalice had a room with a little terrace overlooking it, with a
charming view of the old bridge and its fortified gateway. They
sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee, smoking,
and discussing art. There ran into the river, a little way off,
a narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this
after their day's work they often wandered. They spent all day
painting. Like most of their generation they were obsessed by
the fear of the picturesque, and they turned their backs on the
obvious beauty of the town to seek subjects which were devoid of
a prettiness they despised. Sisley and Monet had painted the
canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire to try their
hands at what was so typical of France; but they were frightened
of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid
it. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed
Lawson notwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a
picture in which she tried to circumvent the commonplace by
leaving out the tops of the trees; and Lawson had the brilliant
idea of putting in his foreground a large blue advertisement of
_chocolat Menier_ in order to emphasise his abhorrence of the
chocolate box.

Philip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of
delight when first he used that grateful medium. He went out
with Lawson in the morning with his little box and sat by him
painting a panel; it gave him so much satisfaction that he did
not realise he was doing no more than copy; he was so much under
his friend's influence that he saw only with his eyes. Lawson
painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the
grass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned
in their hands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had
one fine day after another; it was very hot; and the heat,
searing Philip's heart, filled him with languor; he could not
work; his mind was eager with a thousand thoughts. Often he
spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the shade of the
poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an hour.
Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty
road that led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing.
His head was full of romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau,
gay and insouciant, seemed to wander with their cavaliers among
the great trees, whispering to one another careless, charming
things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless fear.

They were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle
age, a Rabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent
the day by the river patiently fishing for fish she never
caught, and Philip sometimes went down and talked to her. He
found out that she had belonged to a profession whose most
notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren, and having
made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the
_bourgeoise_. She told Philip lewd stories.

"You must go to Seville," she said--she spoke a little broken
English. "The most beautiful women in the world."

She leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large
belly, shook with inward laughter.

It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night.
The heat seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a
material thing. They did not wish to leave the starlit night,
and the three of them would sit on the terrace of Ruth Chalice's
room, silent, hour after hour, too tired to talk any more, but
in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. They listened to the
murmur of the river. The church clock struck one and two and
sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed.
Suddenly Philip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were
lovers. He divined it in the way the girl looked at the young
painter, and in his air of possession; and as Philip sat with
them he felt a kind of effluence surrounding them, as though the
air were heavy with something strange. The revelation was a
shock. He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very good fellow and
he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him possible
to enter into a closer relationship. One Sunday they had all
gone with a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a
glade which was suitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was
idyllic, insisted on taking off her shoes and stockings. It
would have been very charming only her feet were rather large
and she had on both a large corn on the third toe. Philip felt
it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. But now he looked
upon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine
in her large eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not
to have seen that she was attractive. He thought he detected in
her a touch of contempt for him, because he had not had the
sense to see that she was there, in his way, and in Lawson a
suspicion of superiority. He was envious of Lawson, and he was
jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his love. He
wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his
heart. He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would
pass him by. He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be
swept off his feet and borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared
not whither. Miss Chalice and Lawson seemed to him now somehow
different, and the constant companionship with them made him
restless. He was dissatisfied with himself. Life was not giving
him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was
losing his time.

The stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were
between the couple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the
utmost frankness.

"And you," she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had
fattened on the lust of her fellows, "have you got a _petite
amie?_"

"No," said Philip, blushing.

"And why not? _C'est de votre age_."

He shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of Verlaine in his
hands, and he wandered off. He tried to read, but his passion
was too strong. He thought of the stray amours to which he had
been introduced by Flanagan, the sly visits to houses in a
_cul-de-sac_, with the drawing-room in Utrecht velvet, and the
mercenary graces of painted women. He shuddered. He threw
himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animal
freshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars
gently tremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost
more than he could bear. He was in love with love. In his fancy
he felt the kiss of warm lips on his, and around his neck the
touch of soft hands. He imagined himself in the arms of Ruth
Chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and the wonderful texture
of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful adventure
slip through his fingers. And if Lawson had done it why should
not he? But this was only when he did not see her, when he lay
awake at night or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he
saw her he felt suddenly quite different; he had no desire to
take her in his arms, and he could not imagine himself kissing
her. It was very curious. Away from her he thought her
beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and the creamy
pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that
she was flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed;
he could not forget the corns on her toes. He could not
understand himself. Would he always love only in absence and be
prevented from enjoying anything when he had the chance by that
deformity of vision which seemed to exaggerate the revolting?

He was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the
definite end of the long summer, drove them all back to Paris.


CHAPTER XLVIII

WHEN PHILIP returned to Amitrano's he found that Fanny Price was
no longer working there. She had given up the key of her locker.
He asked Mrs. Otter whether she knew what had become of her; and
Mrs. Otter, with a shrug of the shoulders, answered that she had
probably gone back to England. Philip was relieved. He was
profoundly bored by her ill-temper. Moreover she insisted on
advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight when he
did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he
felt himself no longer the duffer he had been at first. Soon he
forgot all about her. He was working in oils now and he was full
of enthusiasm. He hoped to have something done of sufficient
importance to send to the following year's Salon. Lawson was
painting a portrait of Miss Chalice. She was very paintable, and
all the young men who had fallen victims to her charm had made
portraits of her. A natural indolence, joined with a passion for
picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and she had
enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. Since her
passion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of
artists, she was quite content to neglect her own work. She
liked the warmth of the studio, and the opportunity to smoke
innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a low, pleasant voice
of the love of art and the art of love. She made no clear
distinction between the two.

Lawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could
hardly stand for days and then scraping out all he had done. He
would have exhausted the patience of anyone but Ruth Chalice. At
last he got into a hopeless muddle.

"The only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh," he
said. "I know exactly what I want now, and it won't take me
long."

Philip was present at the time, and Miss Chalice said to him:

"Why don't you paint me too? You'll be able to learn a lot by
watching Mr. Lawson."

It was one of Miss Chalice's delicacies that she always
addressed her lovers by their surnames.

"I should like it awfully if Lawson wouldn't mind."

"I don't care a damn," said Lawson.

It was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he
began with trepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and
painted as he saw him paint. He profited by the example and by
the advice which both Lawson and Miss Chalice freely gave him.
At last Lawson finished and invited Clutton in to criticise.
Clutton had only just come back to Paris. From Provence he had
drifted down to Spain, eager to see Velasquez at Madrid, and
thence he had gone to Toledo. He stayed there three months, and
he was returned with a name new to the young men: he had
wonderful things to say of a painter called El Greco, who it
appeared could only be studied in Toledo.

"Oh yes, I know about him," said Lawson, "he's the old master
whose distinction it is that he painted as badly as the
moderns."

Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked
at Lawson with a sardonic air.

"Are you going to show us the stuff you've brought back from
Spain?" asked Philip.

"I didn't paint in Spain, I was too busy."

"What did you do then?"

"I thought things out. I believe I'm through with the
Impressionists; I've got an idea they'll seem very thin and
superficial in a few years. I want to make a clean sweep of
everything I've learnt and start fresh. When I came back I
destroyed everything I'd painted. I've got nothing in my studio
now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet. I've only got an inkling of what I want."

He spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were
straining to hear something which was only just audible. There
seemed to be a mysterious force in him which he himself did not
understand, but which was struggling obscurely to find an
outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dreaded the criticism
he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he might
get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton's; but
Philip knew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure
than Clutton's praise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some
time in silence, then glanced at Philip's picture, which was
standing on an easel.

"What's that?" he asked. "Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too."

"The sedulous ape," he murmured.

He turned away again to Lawson's canvas. Philip reddened but did
not speak.

"Well, what d'you think of it?" asked Lawson at length.

"The modelling's jolly good," said Clutton. "And I think it's
very well drawn."

"D'you think the values are all right?"

"Quite."

Lawson smiled with delight. He shook himself in his clothes like
a wet dog.

"I say, I'm jolly glad you like it."

"I don't. I don't think it's of the smallest importance."

Lawson's face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment:
he had no notion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of
expression in words, and he spoke as though it were an effort.
What he had to say was confused, halting, and verbose; but
Philip knew the words which served as the text of his rambling
discourse. Clutton, who never read, had heard them first from
Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had
remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had
acquired the character of a revelation: a good painter had two
chief objects to paint, namely, man and the intention of his
soul. The Impressionists had been occupied with other problems,
they had painted man admirably, but they had troubled themselves
as little as the English portrait painters of the eighteenth
century with the intention of his soul.

"But when you try to get that you become literary," said Lawson,
interrupting. "Let me paint the man like Manet, and the
intention of his soul can go to the devil."

"That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own
game, but you can't get anywhere near him. You can't feed
yourself on the day before yesterday, it's ground which has been
swept dry. You must go back. It's when I saw the Grecos that I
felt one could get something more out of portraits than we knew
before."

"It's just going back to Ruskin," cried Lawson.

"No--you see, he went for morality: I don't care a damn for
morality: teaching doesn't coOme in, ethics and all that, but
passion and emotion. The greatest portrait painters have painted
both, man and the intention of his soul; Rembrandt and El Greco;
it's only the second-raters who've only painted man. A lily of
the valley would be lovely even if it didn't smell, but it's
more lovely because it has perfume. That picture"--he pointed to
Lawson's portrait--"well, the drawing's all right and so's the
modelling all right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn
and modelled so that you know the girl's a lousy slut.
Correctness is all very well: El Greco made his people eight
feet high because he wanted to express something he couldn't get
any other way."

"Damn El Greco," said Lawson, "what's the good of jawing about
a man when we haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?"

Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence,
and went away. Philip and Lawson looked at one another.

"There's something in what he says," said Philip.

Lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture.

"How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by
painting exactly what one sees?"


About this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning
models assembled at the school in order that one might be chosen
for the week, and one day a young man was taken who was plainly
not a model by profession. Philip's attention was attracted by
the manner in which he held himself: when he got on to the stand
he stood firmly on both feet, square, with clenched hands, and
with his head defiantly thrown forward; the attitude emphasised
his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his muscles stood
out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped, was
well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes
and heavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without
appearance of fatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame
and of determination. His air of passionate energy excited
Philip's romantic imagination, and when, the sitting ended, he
saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that he wore them as
though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, but in a
day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard
and that he had never sat before.

"I suppose he was starving," said Philip.

"Have you noticed his clothes? They're quite neat and decent,
aren't they?"

It chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at
Amitrano's, was going to Italy for a couple of months, and
offered his studio to Philip. Philip was pleased. He was growing
a little impatient of Lawson's peremptory advice and wanted to
be by himself. At the end of the week he went up to the model
and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished asked
whether he would come and sit to him one day.

"I'm not a model," the Spaniard answered. "I have other things
to do next week."

"Come and have luncheon with me now, and we'll talk about it,"
said Philip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile:
"It won't hurt you to lunch with me."

With a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went
off to a _cremerie_. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent
but difficult to follow, and Philip managed to get on well
enough with him. He found out that he was a writer. He had come
to Paris to write novels and kept himself meanwhile by all the
expedients possible to a penniless man; he gave lessons, he did
any translations he could get hold of, chiefly business
documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his fine
figure. Sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the
last week was enough to keep him for two more; he told Philip,
amazed, that he could live easily on two francs a day; but it
filled him with shame that he was obliged to show his body for
money, and he looked upon sitting as a degradation which only
hunger could excuse. Philip explained that he did not want him
to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to do a
portrait of him which he might send to the next Salon.

"But why should you want to paint me?" asked the Spaniard.

Philip answered that the head interested him, he thought he
could do a good portrait.

"I can't afford the time. I grudge every minute that I have to
rob from my writing."

"But it would only be in the afternoon. I work at the school in
the morning. After all, it's better to sit to me than to do
translations of legal documents."

There were legends in the Latin quarter of a time when students
of different countries lived together intimately, but this was
long since passed, and now the various nations were almost as
much separated as in an Oriental city. At Julian's and at the
Beaux Arts a French student was looked upon with disfavour by
his fellow-countrymen when he consorted with foreigners, and it
was difficult for an Englishman to know more than quite
superficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he
dwelt. Indeed, many of the students after living in Paris for
five years knew no more French than served them in shops and
lived as English a life as though they were working in South
Kensington.

Philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the
opportunity to get in touch with a Spaniard; he used all his
persuasiveness to overcome the man's reluctance.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the Spaniard at last. "I'll
sit to you, but not for money, for my own pleasure."

Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they
arranged that he should come on the following Monday at one
o'clock. He gave Philip a card on which was printed his name:
Miguel Ajuria.

Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he
borrowed fifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a
little more expensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings
in the usual way; but gave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling
that he was not earning his living in a degrading manner. His
nationality made Philip regard him as a representative of
romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada, Velasquez
and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur of
his country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France
was the only country for a man of intelligence and Paris the
centre of the world.

"Spain is dead," he cried. "It has no writers, it has no art, it
has nothing."

Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he
revealed his ambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped
would make his name. He was under the influence of Zola, and he
had set his scene in Paris. He told Philip the story at length.
To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the naive obscenity--
_c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie_, he cried--the naive
obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the
anecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible
hardships, denying himself all the pleasures of life which had
attracted him to Paris, fighting with starvation for art's sake,
determined that nothing should hinder his great achievement. The
effort was heroic.

"But why don't you write about Spain?" cried Philip. "It would
be so much more interesting. You know the life."

"But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is
life."

One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad
French, translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip
could scarcely understand, he read passages. It was lamentable.
Philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting: the mind
behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate
eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious. Philip was not
satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he
nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very well
to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that
was when people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked
Miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent
struggle was futile: he had everything to make a good writer but
talent. Philip looked at his own work. How could you tell
whether there was anything in it or whether you were wasting
your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could not help
you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of
Fanny Price; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her
strength of will was extraordinary.

"If I thought I wasn't going to be really good, I'd rather give
up painting," said Philip. "I don't see any use in being a
second-rate painter."

Then one morning when he was going out, the _concierge_ called
out to him that there was a letter. Nobody wrote to him but his
Aunt Louisa and sometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he
did not know. The letter was as follows:


Please come at once when you get this. I couldn't put up with it
any more. Please come yourself. I can't bear the thought that
anyone else should touch me. I want you to have everything.
                                                  F. Price

I have not had anything to eat for three days.


Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house
in which she lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at
all. He had not seen her for months and imagined she had long
since returned to England. When he arrived he asked the
_concierge_ whether she was in.

"Yes, I've not seen her go out for two days."

Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply.
He called her name. The door was locked, and on bending down he
found the key was in the lock.

"Oh, my God, I hope she hasn't done something awful," he cried
aloud.

He ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the
room. He had had a letter from her and feared a terrible
accident. He suggested breaking open the door. The porter, who
had been sullen and disinclined to listen, became alarmed; he
could not take the responsibility of breaking into the room;
they must go for the _commissaire de police_. They walked
together to the _bureau_, and then they fetched a locksmith.
Philip found that Miss Price had not paid the last quarter's
rent: on New Year's Day she had not given the _concierge_ the
present which old-established custom led him to regard as a
right. The four of them went upstairs, and they knocked again at
the door. There was no reply. The locksmith set to work, and at
last they entered the room. Philip gave a cry and instinctively
covered his eyes with his hands. The wretched woman was hanging
with a rope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the
ceiling fixed by some previous tenant to hold up the curtains of
the bed. She had moved her own little bed out of the way and had
stood on a chair, which had been kicked away. it was lying on
its side on the floor. They cut her down. The body was quite
cold.


CHAPTER XLIX

THE story which Philip made out in one way and another was
terrible. One of the grievances of the women-students was that
Fanny Price would never share their gay meals in restaurants,
and the reason was obvious: she had been oppressed by dire
poverty. He remembered the luncheon they had eaten together when
first he came to Paris and the ghoulish appetite which had
disgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner
because she was ravenous. The _concierge_ told him what her
food had consisted of. A bottle of milk was left for her every
day and she brought in her own loaf of bread; she ate half the
loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day when she came back from
the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. It was the
same day after day. Philip thought with anguish of what she must
have endured. She had never given anyone to understand that she
was poorer than the rest, but it was clear that her money had
been coming to an end, and at last she could not afford to come
any more to the studio. The little room was almost bare of
furniture, and there were no other clothes than the shabby brown
dress she had always worn. Philip searched among her things for
the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. He
found a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score
of times. It gave him a peculiar shock. He supposed it was true
that she had loved him; he thought of the emaciated body, in the
brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; and he
shuddered. But if she had cared for him why did she not let him
help her? He would so gladly have done all he could. He felt
remorseful because he had refused to see that she looked upon
him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her
letter were infinitely pathetic: I can't bear the thought that
anyone else should touch me. She had died of starvation.

Philip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother,
Albert. it was two or three weeks old, dated from some road in
Surbiton, and refused a loan of five pounds. The writer had his
wife and family to think of, he didn't feel justified in lending
money, and his advice was that Fanny should come back to London
and try to get a situation. Philip telegraphed to Albert Price,
and in a little while an answer came:

"Deeply distressed. Very awkward to leave my business. Is
presence essential. Price."

Philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger
presented himself at the studio.

"My name's Price," he said, when Philip opened the door.

He was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler
hat; he had something of Fanny's clumsy look; he wore a stubbly
moustache, and had a cockney accent. Philip asked him to come
in. He cast sidelong glances round the studio while Philip gave
him details of the accident and told him what he had done.

"I needn't see her, need I?" asked Albert Price. "My nerves
aren't very strong, and it takes very little to upset me."

He began to talk freely. He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a
wife and three children. Fanny was a governess, and he couldn't
make out why she hadn't stuck to that instead of coming to
Paris.

"Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl. And
there's no money in art--never 'as been."

It was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with
his sister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that
she had done him. He did not like the idea that she had been
forced to it by poverty; that seemed to reflect on the family.
The idea struck him that possibly there was a more respectable
reason for her act.

"I suppose she 'adn't any trouble with a man, 'ad she? You know
what I mean, Paris and all that. She might 'ave done it so as
not to disgrace herself."

Philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. Price's
keen little eyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue.

"I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous," he
answered acidly. "She killed herself because she was starving."

"Well, it's very 'ard on her family, Mr. Carey. She only 'ad to
write to me. I wouldn't have let my sister want."

Philip had found the brother's address only by reading the
letter in which he refused a loan; but he shrugged his
shoulders: there was no use in recrimination. He hated the
little man and wanted to have done with him as soon as possible.
Albert Price also wished to get through the necessary business
quickly so that he could get back to London. They went to the
tiny room in which poor Fanny had lived. Albert Price looked at
the pictures and the furniture.

"I don't pretend to know much about art," he said. "I suppose
these pictures would fetch something, would they?"

"Nothing," said Philip.

"The furniture's not worth ten shillings."

Albert Price knew no French and Philip had to do everything. It
seemed that it was an interminable process to get the poor body
safely hidden away under ground: papers had to be obtained in
one place and signed in another; officials had to be seen. For
three days Philip was occupied from morning till night. At last
he and Albert Price followed the hearse to the cemetery at
Montparnasse.

"I want to do the thing decent," said Albert Price, "but there's
no use wasting money."

The short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray
morning. Half a dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at
the studio came to the funeral, Mrs. Otter because she was
_massiere_ and thought it her duty, Ruth Chalice because she had
a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan. They had all
disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across the
cemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and
simple, others vulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was
horribly sordid. When they came out Albert Price asked Philip to
lunch with him. Philip loathed him now and he was tired; he had
not been sleeping well, for he dreamed constantly of Fanny Price
in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling;
but he could not think of an excuse.

"You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch.
All this is the very worst thing for my nerves."

"Lavenue's is about the best place round here," answered Philip.

Albert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of
relief. He ordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," he said.

He threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that
he was eager to hear about the painter's life in Paris. He
represented it to himself as deplorable, but he was anxious for
details of the orgies which his fancy suggested to him. With sly
winks and discrect sniggering he conveyed that he knew very well
that there was a great deal more than Philip confessed. He was
a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two. He asked Philip
whether he had ever been to any of those places in Montmartre
which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. He
would like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon
was very good and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as
the processes of digestion went satisfactorily forwards.

"Let's 'ave a little brandy," he said when the coffee was
brought, "and blow the expense."

He rubbed his hands.

"You know, I've got 'alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back
tomorrow. What d'you say to spending the evening together?"

"If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight,
I'll see you damned," said Philip.

"I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing."

The answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled.

"Besides it would be rotten for your nerves," he said gravely.

Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by
the four o'clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip.

"Well, good-bye, old man," he said. "I tell you what, I'll try
and come over to Paris again one of these days and I'll look you
up. And then we won't 'alf go on the razzle."

Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on
a bus and crossed the river to see whether there were any
pictures on view at Durand-Ruel's. After that he strolled along
the boulevard. It was cold and wind-swept. People hurried by
wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together in an effort to keep
out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and careworn. It
was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all
those white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and
strangely homesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw
would be working, and Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson
was painting another portrait of Ruth Chalice and would not care
to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go and see Flanagan. He
found him painting, but delighted to throw up his work and talk.
The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money than
most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip
looked at the two heads that he was sending to the Salon.

"It's awful cheek my sending anything," said Flanagan, "but I
don't care, I'm going to send. D'you think they're rotten?"

"Not so rotten as I should have expected," said Philip.

They showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties
had been avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way
in which the paint was put on which was surprising and even
attractive. Flanagan, without knowledge or technique, painted
with the loose brush of a man who has spent a lifetime in the
practice of the art.

"If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than
thirty seconds you'd be a great master, Flanagan," smiled
Philip.

These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another
with excessive flattery.

"We haven't got time in America to spend more than thirty
seconds in looking at any picture," laughed the other.

Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the
world, had a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and
charming. Whenever anyone was ill he installed himself as
sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than any medicine. Like many
of his countrymen he had not the English dread of sentimentality
which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding nothing
absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy
which was often grateful to his friends in distress. He saw that
Philip was depressed by what he had gone through and with
unaffected kindliness set himself boisterously to cheer him up.
He exaggerated the Americanisms which he knew always made the
Englishmen laugh and poured out a breathless stream of
conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. In due course
they went out to dinner and afterwards to the Gaite
Montparnasse, which was Flanagan's favourite place of amusement.
By the end of the evening he was in his most extravagant humour.
He had drunk a good deal, but any inebriety from which he
suffered was due much more to his own vivacity than to alcohol.
He proposed that they should go to the Bal Bullier, and Philip,
feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. They
sat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little
from the level of the floor so that they could watch the
dancing, and drank a bock. Presently Flanagan saw a friend and
with a wild shout leaped over the barrier on to the space where
they were dancing. Philip watched the people. Bullier was not
the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night and the place was
crowded. There were a number of students of the various
faculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in
shops; they wore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or
queer tail-coats, and their hats, for they had brought them in
with them, and when they danced there was no place to put them
but their heads. Some of the women looked like servant-girls,
and some were painted hussies, but for the most part they were
shop-girls. They were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of the
fashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up
to resemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed
notoriety at the moment; their eyes were heavy with black and
their cheeks impudently scarlet. The hall was lit by great white
lights, low down, which emphasised the shadows on the faces; all
the lines seemed to harden under it, and the colours were most
crude. It was a sordid scene. Philip leaned over the rail,
staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced
furiously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very
little, with all their attention given to the dance. The room
was hot, and their faces shone with sweat. it seemed to Philip
that they had thrown off the guard which people wear on their
expression, the homage to convention, and he saw them now as
they really were. In that moment of abandon they were strangely
animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others had
the long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from
the unhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. Their
features were blunted by mean interests, and their little eyes
were shifty and cunning. There was nothing of nobility in their
bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long
succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts. The air was
heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they danced
furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them,
and it seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage
for enjoyment. They were seeking desperately to escape from a
world of horror. The desire for pleasure which Cronshaw said was
the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the
very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure.
They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew not
why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them,
and they danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath
their feet. Their silence was vaguely alarming. It was as if
life terrified them and robbed them of power of speech so that
the shriek which was in their hearts died at their throats.
Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding the
beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their
faces, and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was
worst of all, the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that
crowd terrible and pathetic. Philip loathed them, and yet his
heart ached with the infinite pity which filled him.

He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the
bitter coldness of the night.


CHAPTER L

PHILIP could not get the unhappy event out of his head. What
troubled him most was the uselessness of Fanny's effort. No one
could have worked harder than she, nor with more sincerity; she
believed in herself with all her heart; but it was plain that
self-confidence meant very little, all his friends had it,
Miguel Ajuria among the rest; and Philip was shocked by the
contrast between the Spaniard's heroic endeavour and the
triviality of the thing he attempted. The unhappiness of
Philip's life at school had called up in him the power of
self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle as drug-taking, had
taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiar keenness
in the dissection of his feelings. He could not help seeing that
art affected him differently from others. A fine picture gave
Lawson an immediate thrill. His appreciation was instinctive.
Even Flanagan felt certain things which Philip was obliged to
think out. His own appreciation was intellectual. He could not
help thinking that if he had in him the artistic temperament (he
hated the phrase, but could discover no other) he would feel
beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. He
began to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial
cleverness of the hand which enabled him to copy objects with
accuracy. That was nothing. He had learned to despise technical
dexterity. The important thing was to feel in terms of paint.
Lawson painted in a certain way because it was his nature to,
and through the imitativeness of a student sensitive to every
influence, there pierced individuality. Philip looked at his own
portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that three months had passed
he realised that it was no more than a servile copy of Lawson.
He felt himself barren. He painted with the brain, and he could
not help knowing that the only painting worth anything was done
with the heart.

He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it
would be necessary for him to practise the severest economy. He
could not count on earning anything for ten years. The history
of painting was full of artists who had earned nothing at all.
He must resign himself to penury; and it was worth while if he
produced work which was immortal; but he had a terrible fear
that he would never be more than second-rate. Was it worth while
for that to give up one's youth, and the gaiety of life, and the
manifold chances of being? He knew the existence of foreign
painters in Paris enough to see that the lives they led were
narrowly provincial. He knew some who had dragged along for
twenty years in the pursuit of a fame which always escaped them
till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism. Fanny's suicide
had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of the
way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. He
remembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor
Fanny: it would have been well for her if she had taken it and
given up an attempt which was hopeless.

Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his
mind to send it to the Salon. Flanagan was sending two pictures,
and he thought he could paint as well as Flanagan. He had worked
so hard on the portrait that he could not help feeling it must
have merit. It was true that when he looked at it he felt that
there was something wrong, though he could not tell what; but
when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was not
dissatisfied. He sent it to the Salon and it was refused. He did
not mind much, since he had done all he could to persuade
himself that there was little chance that it would be taken,
till Flanagan a few days later rushed in to tell Lawson and
Philip that one of his pictures was accepted. With a blank face
Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was so busy
congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony
which Philip could not prevent from coming into his voice.
Lawson, quicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip
curiously. His own picture was all right, he knew that a day or
two before, and he was vaguely resentful of Philip's attitude.
But he was surprised at the sudden question which Philip put him
as soon as the American was gone.

"If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wonder if it's worth while being a second-rate painter. You
see, in other things, if you're a doctor or if you're in
business, it doesn't matter so much if you're mediocre. You make
a living and you get along. But what is the good of turning out
second-rate pictures?"

Lawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was
seriously distressed by the refusal of his picture, he set
himself to console him. It was notorious that the Salon had
refused pictures which were afterwards famous; it was the first
time Philip had sent, and he must expect a rebuff; Flanagan's
success was explicable, his picture was showy and superficial:
it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit in.
Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should
think him capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a
calamity and would not realise that his dejection was due to a
deep-seated distrust of his powers.

Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group
who took their meals at Gravier's, and lived very much by
himself. Flanagan said he was in love with a girl, but Clutton's
austere countenance did not suggest passion; and Philip thought
it more probable that he separated himself from his friends so
that he might grow clear with the new ideas which were in him.
But that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go
to a play and Philip was sitting alone, Clutton came in and
ordered dinner. They began to talk, and finding Clutton more
loquacious and less sardonic than usual, Philip determined to
take advantage of his good humour.

"I say I wish you'd come and look at my picture," he said. "I'd
like to know what you think of it."

"No, I won't do that."

"Why not?" asked Philip, reddening.

The request was one which they all made of one another, and no
one ever thought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his shoulders.

"People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise.
Besides, what's the good of criticism? What does it matter if
your picture is good or bad?"

"It matters to me."

"No. The only reason that one paints is that one can't help it.
it's a function like any of the other functions of the body,
only comparatively few people have got it. One paints for
oneself: otherwise one would commit suicide. Just think of it,
you spend God knows how long trying to get something on to
canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what is the
result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it's
accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if
you're lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his
walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining-room
table. Criticism has nothing to do with the artist. it judges
objectively, but the objective doesn't concern the artist."

Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate
his mind on what he wanted to say.

"The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees,
and is impelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can
only express his feeling by lines and colours. It's like a
musician; he'll read a line or two, and a certain combination of
notes presents itself to him: he doesn't know why such and such
words call forth in him such and such notes; they just do. And
I'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a
great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but
in the next generation another painter sees the world in another
way, and then the public judges him not by himself but by his
predecessor. So the Barbizon people taught our fathers to look
at trees in a certain manner, and when Monet came along and
painted differently, people said: But trees aren't like that. It
never struck them that trees are exactly how a painter chooses
to see them. We paint from within outwards--if we force our
vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it
ignores us; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to
greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards
is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were
doing it."

There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured
the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar,
observed him closely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked
as though it were carved from a stone refractory to the
sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of dark hair, the great nose,
and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of strength;
and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask conculed a
strange weakness. Clutton's refusal to show his work might be
sheer vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's
criticism, and he would not expose himself to the chance of a
refusal from the Salon; he wanted to be received as a master and
would not risk comparisons with other work which might force him
to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the eighteen
months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and
bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete
with his fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of
those who did. He had no patience with Lawson, and the pair were
no longer on the intimate terms upon which they had been when
Philip first knew them.

"Lawson's all right," he said contemptuously, "he'll go back to
England, become a fashionable portrait painter, urn ten thousand
a year and be an A. R. A. before he's forty. Portraits done by
hand for the nobility and gentry!"

Philip, too, looked into the future, and he saw Clutton in
twenty years, bitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in
Paris, for the life there had got into his bones, ruling a small
_cenacle_ with a savage tongue, at war with himself and the
world, producing little in his increasing passion for a
perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last into
drunkenness. Of late Philip had been captivated by an idea that
since one had only one life it was important to make a success
of it, but he did not count success by the acquiring of money or
the achieving of fame; he did not quite know yet what he meant
by it, perhaps variety of experience and the making the most of
his abilities. It was plain anyway that the life which Clutton
seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would be
the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected
Cronshaw's whimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had
thought of it often; but Cronshaw with his faun-like humour had
refused to make his meaning clear: he repeated that it had none
unless one discovered it for oneself. It was this desire to make
a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip's
uncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton
began to talk again.

"D'you remember my telling you about that chap I met in
Brittany? I saw him the other day here. He's just off to Tahiti.
He was broke to the world. He was a _brasseur d'affaires_, a
stockbroker I suppose you call it in English; and he had a wife
and family, and he was earning a large income. He chucked it all
to become a painter. He just went off and settled down in
Brittany and began to paint. He hadn't got any money and did the
next best thing to starving."

"And what about his wife and family?" asked Philip.

"Oh, he dropped them. He left them to starve on their own
account."

"It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do."

"Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give
up being an artist. They've got nothing to do with one another.
You hear of men painting pot-boilers to keep an aged
mother--well, it shows they're excellent sons, but it's no
excuse for bad work. They're only tradesmen. An artist would let
his mother go to the workhouse. There's a writer I know over
here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. He was in
love with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the
bedside watching her die he found himself making mental notes of
how she looked and what she said and the things he was feeling.
Gentlemanly, wasn't it?"

"But is your friend a good painter?" asked Philip.

"No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro. He hasn't found
himself, but he's got a sense of colour and a sense of
decoration. But that isn't the question. it's the feeling, and
that he's got. He's behaved like a perfect cad to his wife and
children, he's always behaving like a perfect cad; the way he
treats the people who've helped him--and sometimes he's been
saved from starvation merely by the kindness of his friends--is
simply beastly. He just happens to be a great artist."

Philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice
everything, comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the
sake of getting on to canvas with paint the emotion which the
world gave him. it was magnificent, and yet his courage failed
him.

Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not
seen him for a week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered
along to the cafe in which he was certain to find the writer.
During the first few months of his stay in Paris Philip had
accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said, but Philip had a
practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories which
resulted in no action. Cronshaw's slim bundle of poetry did not
seem a substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip
could not wrench out of his nature the instincts of the
middle-class from which he came; and the penury, the hack work
which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul together, the monotony
of existence between the slovenly attic and the cafe table,
jarred with his respectability. Cronshaw was astute enough to
know that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his
philistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often
very keen.

"You're a tradesman," he told Philip, "you want to invest life
in consols so that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent.
I'm a spendthrift, I run through my capital. I shall spend my
last penny with my last heartbeat."

The metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the
speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position
which Philip instinctively felt had more to say for it than he
could think of at the moment.

But this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about
himself. Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw's pile of
saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he
was prepared to take an independent view of things in general.

"I wonder if you'd give me some advice," said Philip suddenly.
"You won't take it, will you?" Philip shrugged his shoulders
impatiently.

"I don't believe I shall ever do much good as a painter. I don't
see any use in being second-rate. I'm thinking of chucking it."

"Why shouldn't you?"

Philip hesitated for an instant.

"I suppose I like the life."

A change Came over Cronshaw's placid, round face. The corners of
the mouth were suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their
orbits; he seemed to become strangely bowed and old.

"This?" he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. His
voice really trembled a little.

"If you can get out of it, do while there's time."

Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion
always made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. He knew that
he was looking upon the tragedy of failure. There was silence.
Philip thought that Cronshaw was looking upon his own life; and
perhaps he considered his youth with its bright hopes and the
disappointments which wore out the radiancy; the wretched
monotony of pleasure, and the black future. Philip's eyes rested
on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that Cronshaw's were
on them too.


CHAPTER LI

TWO months passed.

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

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

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

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

"Speak," he said.

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

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

"I don't understand."

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

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

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

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

"Do you live near here?"

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

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

"Now?" cried Philip.

"Why not?"

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

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

Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.

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

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

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

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

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

Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.

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

Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dear Philip,

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


CHAPTER LII

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

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

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

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

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

Philip read it mechanically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right," said Philip.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see that Holden sent a wreath."

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

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

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

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

"It was my idea," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It would bore you to sit."

"I think I should like it."

"We must see about it."

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

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

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

"Why?" asked his uncle in astonishment.

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

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

"I was mistaken," said Philip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What at?"

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

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

"Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend."

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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


CHAPTER LIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LIV

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

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

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

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

"Yes," answered Philip.

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

"We'd better try to find it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philip saw that another name was bracketed with his own.

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

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

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

"Is your name Carey?" he asked.

"Yes."

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

"Why?" asked Philip.

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

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

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

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

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

"Make you feel rotten?" Philip asked him.

"I've never seen anyone dead before."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't mind my having started?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he get all right?"

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What _does_ the face matter?"

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

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

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

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

"What an odious name," said Philip.

"Why?" asked Dunsford.

"I like it."

"It's so pretentious."

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

"Your friend's not here today."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're quite a stranger."

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

"Have you seen my friend tonight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LVI

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

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

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

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

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

"Cutting up people, I suppose?"

"Not so bad as that."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"It was," said Philip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fancy your remembering him," said Philip.

"He was a nice-looking young fellow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How d'you do?" he said.

"You seem to be in a great hurry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't mind," she said.

"When will you come?"

"I get off early on Thursdays."

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


CHAPTER LVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are we dining?" she asked.

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

"I don't mind where we dine."

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

"I've never been here before."

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

"You are going it," she said.

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

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

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

"What is that?" asked Philip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope you've enjoyed yourself?"

"Rather."

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

"I don't mind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you dance with me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned scarlet.

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

"You can please yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't mind if I do."

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

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

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

"Is he in love with you?"

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

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

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

She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers.

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

"Why should I?"

"No reason at all."

He reached over for his paper.

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

He smiled and looked at her appealingly.

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

"That depends what it is."

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

"I don't mind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Much you care," he muttered.

"Now then, quarrelsome."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it.

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

"Of course I do," he answered.

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

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

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

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

"He was a doctor."

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

They walked along from the station together.

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

"I don't mind," she said.

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

"Why?"

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

"Yes, that'll do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

"Impudence!" she said.

She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house.


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

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

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

"Why?" said Philip.

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing that for?"

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

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

"You've made other arrangements."

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

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

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"Taking the air," he answered.

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

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

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

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

"Have you seen Miller today?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then good-bye."

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


CHAPTER LIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Where have you been all this time?"

"I've been in London."

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

Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.

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

"What are you doing now then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You haven't begged my pardon yet."

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

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

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

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

Philip gave a little gasp.

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

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

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

She looked down at her clothes.

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LX

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

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

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

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

"He looks like an anarchist," said Mildred.

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

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

"You're getting at me."

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

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

"Don't be cross."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come on then."

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

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

"I'll be more careful."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Once is enough," she said.

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

"Won't you give me another kiss?"

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

"I don't mind."

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

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


CHAPTER LXI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're not going?" he said.

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

"I'll take you anywhere you like."

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

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

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

Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now he said:

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

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

His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.

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

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

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

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

"Mildred," he called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now are you happy again?" she asked.

"Madly"

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"You don't mind, do you?"

He had himself now under excellent control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LXII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does it matter?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, why not?"

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

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

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

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

"D'you think we should be happy?"

"No. But what does that matter?"

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

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

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

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

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

"And what would you get as an assistant?"

"Three pounds a week."

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

He was silent for a moment.

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

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

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

"P'raps not."

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

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

Philip smiled grimly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed outright.

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


CHAPTER LXIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rather not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hesitated a moment and then spoke.

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

"I was delighted."

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

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

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

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

"Are you?" said Philip.

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

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

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

"You might congratulate me," she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On Saturday next. I have given notice."

Philip felt a sudden pang.

"As soon as that?"

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

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

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

"Won't you come with me?"

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LXIV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

"I suppose you like doctoring?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's the matter with you?"

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

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

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


CHAPTER LXV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what about Cronshaw?" asked Philip.

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

"Poor devil," smiled the abstemious Philip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philip laughed.

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


CHAPTER LXVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you any objection?"

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

"No," she said.

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

"Well?" she said.

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

"Don't be idiotic," she said.

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

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

"Because it's comfortable."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

"I'm so surprised."

"And pleased?"

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

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

When she told him this he answered gaily:

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

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

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

"And what about afterwards?" asked Philip.

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

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

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

He would not answer.

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

"No."

She put her arm round his neck.

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

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

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

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

"D'you mind?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd rather you went away."

"Why? Are you tired of me?"

She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LXVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why d'you read then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What work?" asked Philip brutally.

"My inner life," he answered.

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

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

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

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

Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last Philip said:

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

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

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


CHAPTER LXVIII

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

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

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

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

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

"Come on."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here's Doctor Deacon," he said.

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

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

"Influenza."

"Quite right."

Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, very well."

He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.

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

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

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

"That's all right."

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

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are awfully kind," said Philip.

He was in bed for five days.

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER LXIX

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

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

"Me?" exclaimed Philip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish I was dead," she moaned.

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

"What's the matter?" he said.

"He's left me--Emil."

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

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

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

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

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

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

She leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical
crying. Her hat was in the way and she took it off. He had never
dreamt that she was capable of crying like that. He kissed her
again and again. It seemed to ease her a little.

"You were always good to me, Philip," she said. "That's why I
knew I could come to you."

"Tell me what's happened."

"Oh, I can't, I can't," she cried out, breaking away from him.

He sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against
hers.

"Don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me? I can
never blame you for anything."

She told him the story little by little, and sometimes she
sobbed so much that he could hardly understand.

"Last Monday week he went up to Birmingham, and he promised to
be back on Thursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on
the Friday, so I wrote to ask what was the matter, and he never
answered the letter. And I wrote and said that if I didn't hear
from him by return I'd go up to Birmingham, and this morning I
got a solicitor's letter to say I had no claim on him, and if I
molested him he'd seek the protection of the law."

"But it's absurd," cried Philip. "A man can't treat his wife
like that. Had you had a row?"

"Oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the Sunday, and he said he was
sick of me, but he'd said it before, and he'd come back all
right. I didn't think he meant it. He was frightened, because I
told him a baby was coming. I kept it from him as long as I
could. Then I had to tell him. He said it was my fault, and I
ought to have known better. If you'd only heard the things he
said to me! But I found out precious quick that he wasn't a
gentleman. He left me without a penny. He hadn't paid the rent,
and I hadn't got the money to pay it, and the woman who kept the
house said such things to me--well, I might have been a thief
the way she talked."

"I thought you were going to take a flat."

"That's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in
Highbury. He was that mean. He said I was extravagant, he didn't
give me anything to be extravagant with."

She had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the
important. Philip was puzzled. The whole thing was
incomprehensible.

"No man could be such a blackguard."

"You don't know him. I wouldn't go back to him now not if he was
to come and ask me on his bended knees. I was a fool ever to
think of him. And he wasn't earning the money he said he was.
The lies he told me!"

Philip thought for a minute or two. He was so deeply moved by
her distress that he could not think of himself.

"Would you like me to go to Birmingham? I could see him and try
to make things up."

"Oh, there's no chance of that. He'll never come back now, I
know him."

"But he must provide for you. He can't get out of that. I don't
know anything about these things, you'd better go and see a
solicitor."

"How can I? I haven't got the money."

"I'll pay all that. I'll write a note to my own solicitor, the
sportsman who was my father's executor. Would you like me to
come with you now? I expect he'll still be at his office."

"No, give me a letter to him. I'll go alone."

She was a little calmer now. He sat down and wrote a note. Then
he remembered that she had no money. He had fortunately changed
a cheque the day before and was able to give her five pounds.

"You are good to me, Philip," she said.

"I'm so happy to be able to do something for you."

"Are you fond of me still?"

"Just as fond as ever."

She put up her lips and he kissed her. There was a surrender in
the action which he had never seen in her before. It was worth
all the agony he had suffered.

She went away and he found that she had been there for two
hours. He was extraordinarily happy.

"Poor thing, poor thing," he murmured to himself, his heart
glowing with a greater love than he had ever felt before.

He never thought of Norah at all till about eight o'clock a
telegram came. He knew before opening it that it was from her.


_Is anything the matter? Norah_.


He did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch
her after the play, in which she was walking on, was over and
stroll home with her as he sometimes did; but his whole soul
revolted against the idea of seeing her that evening. He thought
of writing to her, but he could not bring himself to address her
as usual, _dearest Norah_. He made up his mind to telegraph.


_Sorry. Could not get away, Philip_.


He visualised her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little
face, with its high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was
a coarseness in her skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew
that his telegram must be followed by some action on his part,
but at all events it postponed it.

Next day he wired again.


_Regret, unable to come. Will write_.


Mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he
would not tell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she
came first. He waited for her impatiently. He watched for her at
the window and opened the front-door himself.

"Well? Did you see Nixon?"

"Yes," she answered. "He said it wasn't any good. Nothing's to
be done. I must just grin and bear it."

"But that's impossible," cried Philip.

She sat down wearily.

"Did he give any reasons?" he asked.

She gave him a crumpled letter.

"There's your letter, Philip. I never took it. I couldn't tell
you yesterday, I really couldn't. Emil didn't marry me. He
couldn't. He had a wife already and three children."

Philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. It was almost
more than he could bear.

"That's why I couldn't go back to my aunt. There's no one I can
go to but you."

"What made you go away with him?" Philip asked, in a low voice
which he struggled to make firm.

"I don't know. I didn't know he was a married man at first, and
when he told me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn't
see him for months, and when he came to the shop again and asked
me I don't know what came over me. I felt as if I couldn't help
it. I had to go with him."

"Were you in love with him?"

"I don't know. I couldn't hardly help laughing at the things he
said. And there was something about him--he said I'd never
regret it, he promised to give me seven pounds a week--he said
he was earning fifteen, and it was all a lie, he wasn't. And
then I was sick of going to the shop every morning, and I wasn't
getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to treat me as a
servant instead of a relation, said I ought to do my own room,
and if I didn't do it nobody was going to do it for me. Oh, I
wish I hadn't. But when he came to the shop and asked me I felt
I couldn't help it."

Philip moved away from her. He sat down at the table and buried
his face in his hands. He felt dreadfully humiliated.

"You're not angry with me, Philip?" she asked piteously.

"No," he answered, looking up but away from her, "only I'm
awfully hurt."

"Why?"

"You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything
I could to make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of
loving anyone. It's so horrible to know that you were willing to
sacrifice everything for that bounder. I wonder what you saw in
him."

"I'm awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards,
I promise you that."

He thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his
shifty blue eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he
always wore bright red knitted waistcoats. Philip sighed. She
got up and went to him. She put her arm round his neck.

"I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip."

He took her hand and looked up at her. She bent down and kissed
him.

"Philip, if you want me still I'll do anything you like now. I
know you're a gentleman in every sense of the word."

His heart stood still. Her words made him feel slightly sick.

"It's awfully good of you, but I couldn't."

"Don't you care for me any more?"

"Yes, I love you with all my heart."

"Then why shouldn't we have a good time while we've got the
chance? You see, it can't matter now"

He released himself from her.

"You don't understand. I've been sick with love for you ever
since I saw you, but now--that man. I've unfortunately got a
vivid imagination. The thought of it simply disgusts me."

"You are funny," she said.

He took her hand again and smiled at her.

"You mustn't think I'm not grateful. I can never thank you
enough, but you see, it's just stronger than I am."

"You are a good friend, Philip."

They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar
companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that
they should dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted
some persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her
situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accord with
her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment. At
last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and when she
could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She
had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him
to take her to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had
so often been; he was infinitely grateful to her, because her
suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it. She
grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded. The Burgundy from
the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot
that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. Philip
thought it safe to speak to her of the future.

"I suppose you haven't got a brass farthing, have you?" he
asked, when an opportunity presented itself.

"Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady
three pounds of that."

"Well, I'd better give you a tenner to go on with. I'll go and
see my solicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him
pay up something, I'm sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out
of him it'll carry you on till after the baby comes."

"I wouldn't take a penny from him. I'd rather starve."

"But it's monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like
this."

"I've got my pride to consider."

It was a little awkward for Philip. He needed rigid economy to
make his own money last till he was qualified, and he must have
something over to keep him during the year he intended to spend
as house physician and house surgeon either at his own or at
some other hospital. But Mildred had told him various stories of
Emil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate with her in
case she accused him too of want of generosity.

"I wouldn't take a penny piece from him. I'd sooner beg my
bread. I'd have seen about getting some work to do long before
now, only it wouldn't be good for me in the state I'm in. You
have to think of your health, don't you?"

"You needn't bother about the present," said Philip. "I can let
you have all you want till you're fit to work again."

"I knew I could depend on you. I told Emil he needn't think I
hadn't got somebody to go to. I told him you was a gentleman in
every sense of the word."

By degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It
appeared that the fellow's wife had discovered the adventure he
was engaged in during his periodical visits to London, and had
gone to the head of the firm that employed him. She threatened
to divorce him, and they announced that they would dismiss him
if she did. He was passionately devoted to his children and
could not bear the thought of being separated from them. When he
had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his
wife. He had been always anxious that there should be no child
to make the entanglement more complicated; and when Mildred,
unable longer to conceal its approach, informed him of the fact,
he was seized with panic. He picked a quarrel and left her
without more ado.

"When d'you expect to be confined?" asked Philip.

"At the beginning of March."

"Three months."

It was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would
not remain in the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more
convenient too that she should be nearer to him. He promised to
look for something next day. She suggested the Vauxhall Bridge
Road as a likely neighbourhood.

"And it would be near for afterwards," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or
a little more, and then I should have to go into a house. I know
a very respectable place, where they have a most superior class
of people, and they take you for four guineas a week and no
extras. Of Course the doctor's extra, but that's all. A friend
of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a thorough
lady. I mean to tell her that my husband's an officer in India
and I've come to London for my baby, because it's better for my
health."

It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this
way. With her delicate little features and her pale face she
looked cold and maidenly. When he thought of the passions that
burnt within her, so unexpected, his heart was strangely
troubled. His pulse beat quickly.


CHAPTER LXX

PHILIP expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to
his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the
following morning. The silence irritated and at the same time
alarmed him. They had seen one another every day he had been in
London since the previous June; and it must seem odd to her that
he should let two days go by without visiting her or offering a
reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance
she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think that
she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her
that afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because
he had allowed himself to get on such intimate terms with her.
The thought of continuing them filled him with disgust.

He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in
the Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she
liked the rattle of traffic under her windows.

"I don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul
pass all day," she said. "Give me a bit of life."

Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with
apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that
he was treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she
had a quick temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way
would be to tell her frankly that Mildred had come back to him
and his love for her was as violent as it had ever been; he was
very sorry, but he had nothing to offer Norah any more. Then he
thought of her anguish, for he knew she loved him; it had
flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now it
was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain
upon her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as
he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour
flashed across his mind. He knocked at the door. He felt that he
was pale, and wondered how to conceal his nervousness.

She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet
as he entered.

"I recognised your step," she cried. "Where have you been hiding
yourself, you naughty boy?"

She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck.
She was delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give
himself countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the
fire to make the kettle boil.

"I've been awfully busy," he said lamely.

She began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new
commission she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had
not hitherto employed her. She was to get fifteen guineas for
it.

"It's money from the clouds. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll
stand ourselves a little jaunt. Let's go and spend a day at
Oxford, shall we? I'd love to see the colleges."

He looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach
in her eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was
overjoyed to see him. His heart sank. He could not tell her the
brutal truth. She made some toast for him, and cut it into
little pieces, and gave it him as though he were a child.

"Is the brute fed?" she asked.

He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as
she loved to do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very
light. She leaned back in his arms with a sigh of delicious
happiness.

"Say something nice to me," she murmured.

"What shall I say?"

"You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked
me."

"You know I do that."

He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace
at all events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her.
That would be easier. He could not bear to think of her crying.
She made him kiss her, and as he kissed her he thought of
Mildred and Mildred's pale, thin lips. The recollection of
Mildred remained with him all the time, like an incorporated
form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight
continually distracted his attention.

"You're very quiet today," Norah said.

Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:

"You never let me get a word in, and I've got out of the habit
of talking."

"But you're not listening, and that's bad manners."

He reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of
his secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her
irked him this afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him.

"My foot's gone to sleep," he said.

"I'm so sorry," she cried, jumping up. "I shall have to bant if
I can't break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen's
knees."

He went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and
walking about. Then he stood in front of the fire so that she
should not resume her position. While she talked he thought that
she was worth ten of Mildred; she amused him much more and was
jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and she had a much nicer
nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman; and Mildred,
he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he had
any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much
happier than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved
him, and Mildred was only grateful for his help. But when all
was said the important thing was to love rather than to be
loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his whole soul. He would
sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole afternoon with
Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all Norah
could give him.

"I can't help myself," he thought. "I've just got her in my
bones."

He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid
and grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the
one than happiness with the other.

When he got up to go Norah said casually:

"Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan't I?"

"Yes," he answered.

He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to
help Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say
so. He made up his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw
the rooms in the morning, was satisfied with them, and after
luncheon Philip went up with her to Highbury. She had a trunk
for her clothes and another for the various odds and ends,
cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had
tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or
three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no
more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. As they
drove through Victoria Street Philip sat well back in the cab in
case Norah should happen to be passing. He had not had an
opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post
office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what
he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could
have no excuse for not going into the neighbouring square where
she lived. He made up his mind that he had better go in and see
her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated him: he was
angry with Norah, because she forced him to vulgar and degrading
shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It amused him to
help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming sense
of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had
found and was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It
was a pleasure to do things for her, and she had no desire to do
what somebody else seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked
her clothes and put them away. She was not proposing to go out
again, so he got her slippers and took off her boots. It
delighted him to perform menial offices.

"You do spoil me," she said, running her fingers affectionately
through his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her
boots.

He took her hands and kissed them.

"It is nipping to have you here."

He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had
several jars of green earthenware.

"I'll get you some flowers for them," he said.

He looked round at his work proudly.

"As I'm not going out any more I think I'll get into a
tea-gown," she said. "Undo me behind, will you?"

She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His
sex meant nothing to her. But his heart was filled with
gratitude for the intimacy her request showed. He undid the
hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers.

"That first day I came into the shop I never thought I'd be
doing this for you now," he said, with a laugh which he forced.

"Somebody must do it," she answered.

She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown
decorated with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled
her on a sofa and made tea for her.

"I'm afraid I can't stay and have it with you," he said
regretfully. "I've got a beastly appointment. But I shall be
back in half an hour."

He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the
appointment was, but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered
dinner for the two of them when he took the rooms, and proposed
to spend the evening with her quietly. He was in such a hurry to
get back that he took a tram along the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He
thought he had better break the fact to Norah at once that he
could not stay more than a few minutes.

"I say, I've got only just time to say how d'you do," he said,
as soon as he got into her rooms. "I'm frightfully busy."

Her face fell.

"Why, what's the matter?"

It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and
he knew that he reddened when he answered that there was a
demonstration at the hospital which he was bound to go to. He
fancied that she looked as though she did not believe him, and
this irritated him all the more.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said. "I shall have you all
tomorrow."

He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking
forward to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that
he must do that in common decency; he could not leave her by
herself in a strange house.

"I'm awfully sorry, I'm engaged tomorrow."

He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have
given anything to avoid. The colour on Norah's cheeks grew
brighter.

"But I've asked the Gordons to lunch"--they were an actor and
his wife who were touring the provinces and in London for
Sunday--"I told you about it a week ago."

"I'm awfully sorry, I forgot." He hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't
possibly come. Isn't there somebody else you can get?"

"What are you doing tomorrow then?"

"I wish you wouldn't cross-examine me."

"Don't you want to tell me?"

"I don't in the least mind telling you, but it's rather annoying
to be forced to account for all one's movements."

Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got
the better of her temper, and going up to him took his hands.

"Don't disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I've been looking forward
so much to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see
you, and we'll have such a jolly time."

"I'd love to if I could."

"I'm not very exacting, am I? I don't often ask you to do
anything that's a bother. Won't you get out of your horrid
engagement--just this once?"

"I'm awfully sorry, I don't see how I can," he replied sullenly.

"Tell me what it is," she said coaxingly.

He had had time to invent something. "Griffiths' two sisters are
up for the week-end and we're taking them out."

"Is that all?" she said joyfully. "Griffiths can so easily get
another man."

He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It
was a clumsy lie.

"No, I'm awfully sorry, I can't--I've promised and I mean to
keep my promise."

"But you promised me too. Surely I come first."

"I wish you wouldn't persist," he said.

She flared up.

"You won't come because you don't want to. I don't know what
you've been doing the last few days, you've been quite
different."

He looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid I'll have to be going," he said.

"You won't come tomorrow?"

"No."

"In that case you needn't trouble to come again," she cried,
losing her temper for good.

"That's just as you like," he answered.

"Don't let me detain you any longer," she added ironically.

He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that
it had gone no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked
along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so
easily. He went into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to
take in to Mildred.

The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a
small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and
the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a
sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite
wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of
Mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.

"It's really just like home," smiled Philip.

"I might be worse off, mightn't I?" she answered.

When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the
fire, and they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt
happy and generous.

"What would you like to do tomorrow?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the
shop, well, she's married now, and she's asked me to go and
spend the day with her. Of course she thinks I'm married too."

Philip's heart sank.

"But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with
you."

He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case
she would stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not
have hesitated.

"Well, you were a silly to do that. I've promised to go for
three weeks and more."

"But how can you go alone?"

"Oh, I shall say that Emil's away on business. Her husband's in
the glove trade, and he's a very superior fellow."

Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart.
She gave him a sidelong glance.

"You don't grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it's
the last time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don't know
how long, and I had promised."

He took her hand and smiled.

"No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only
want you to be happy."

There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face
downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a
twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget. That was
the name under which Norah wrote.

"I do like his books," said Mildred. "I read them all. They're
so refined."

He remembered what Norah had said of herself.

"I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me
so genteel."


CHAPTER LXXI

PHILIP, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had told him the
details of his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning,
after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their
dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of the
previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got out
of his difficulties so easily.

"It's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a
woman, he remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of a
nuisance to get out of it."

Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his
skill in managing the business. At all events he was immensely
relieved. He thought of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill,
and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was
happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his part that he did
not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own
disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.

But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah.
She wrote:


_Dearest,

I'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in
the afternoon as usual. I love you.
                                                 Your Norah._


His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note
to Griffiths and showed it to him.

"You'd better leave it unanswered," said he.

"Oh, I can't," cried Philip. "I should be miserable if I thought
of her waiting and waiting. You don't know what it is to be sick
for the postman's knock. I do, and I can't expose anybody else
to that torture."

"My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without
somebody suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One
thing is, it doesn't last very long."

Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her
suffer; and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish
she was capable of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had
told him she was going to be married. He did not want anyone to
experience what he had experienced then.

"If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her,"
said Griffiths.

"I can't do that."

He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was
angry with Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She
must have seen that he had no more love to give her. They said
women were so quick at seeing those things.

"You might help me," he said to Griffiths.

"My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. People do get
over these things, you know. She probably isn't so wrapped up in
you as you think, either. One's always rather apt to exaggerate
the passion one's inspired other people with."

He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.

"Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write to her, and
tell her the thing's over. Put it so that there can be no
mistake about it. It'll hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you
do the thing brutally than if you try half-hearted ways."

Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:


_My dear Norah,

I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let
things remain where we left them on Saturday. I don't think
there's any use in letting these things drag on when they've
ceased to be amusing. You told me to go and I went. I do not
propose to come back. Good-bye.
                                                  Philip Carey._


He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought
of it. Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling
eyes. He did not say what he felt.

"I think that'll do the trick," he said.

Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable
morning,. for he imagined with great detail what Norah would
feel when she received his letter. He tortured himself with the
thought of her tears. But at the same time he was relieved.
Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief seen, and he was
free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart leaped at
the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's
work at the hospital was over.

When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had
no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice
behind him.

"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour."

It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair.
She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice
and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them.
He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his
best to smile.

"Yes, do," he said.

He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room.
He was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a
cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly.

"Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If
I'd taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly
wretched."

"It was meant seriously," he answered gravely.

"Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote
and apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to
apologise again. After all, you're your own master and I have no
claims upon you. I don't want you to do anything you don't want
to."

She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went
towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands.

"Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended
you."

He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not
look at her.

"I'm afraid it's too late," he said.

She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his
knees.

"Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can
understand that I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it.
What's the good of making us both unhappy? It's been so jolly,
our friendship." She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. "I
love you, Philip."

He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other
side of the room.

"I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's
over."

"D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and
you took that one?"

He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which
seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had
left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite
silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears
rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob. It
was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away.

"I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't
love you."

She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were
overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have
been easier to bear if she had reproached him. He had thought
her temper would get the better of her, and he was prepared for
that. At the back of his mind was a feeling that a real quarrel,
in which each said to the other cruel things, would in some way
be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last he
grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room
and got a glass of water; he leaned over her.

"Won't you drink a little? it'll relieve you."

She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three
mouthfuls. Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a
handkerchief. She dried her eyes.

"Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you,"
she moaned.

"I'm afraid that's always the case," he said. "There's always
one who loves and one who lets himself be loved."

He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart.
Norah did not answer for a long time.

"I'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful," she
said at last.

She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her
before complain of the life she had led with her husband or of
her poverty. He had always admired the bold front she displayed
to the world.

"And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I
admired you because you were clever and it was so heavenly to
have someone I could put my trust in. I loved you. I never
thought it could come to an end. And without any fault of mine
at all."

Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of
herself, and she hid her face in Philip's handkerchief. She
tried hard to control herself.

"Give me some more water," she said.

She wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared."

"I'm awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I'm very
grateful for all you've done for me."

He wondered what it was she saw in him.

"Oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want men to
behave well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat
them decently they make you suffer for it."

She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip
a long, steady look. Then she sighed.

"It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?"

Philip took a sudden determination.

"I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to think too
badly of me, I want you to see that I can't help myself.
Mildred's come back."

The colour came to her face.

"Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that surely."

"I was afraid to."

She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.

"Will you call me a cab," she said. "I don't feel I can walk."

He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she
followed him into the street he was startled to see how white
she was. There was a heaviness in her movements as though she
had suddenly grown older. She looked so ill that he had not the
heart to let her go alone.

I'll drive back with you if you don't mind."

She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in
silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which
children, with shrill cries, played in the road. When they
arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. It seemed
as though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to
move.

"I hope you'll forgive me, Norah," he said.

She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were
bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.

"Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You mustn't bother.
I don't blame you. I shall get over it all right."

Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she
bore no ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than
suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into
her house.

Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's lodgings. There
was a curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to
reproach himself. But why? He did not know what else he could
have done. Passing a fruiterer's, he remembered that Mildred was
fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he could show his love
for her by recollecting every whim she had.


CHAPTER LXXII

FOR the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred.
He took his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred
lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and
watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She
would feel his eyes upon her.

"Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your
work," she said.

"Tyrant," he answered gaily.

He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth
for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her.
She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour
and a quick tongue. Mildred had become great friends with her
and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the
circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. The
good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too
great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred's sense of propriety
had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her
brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he
had ordered something which tempted Mildred's capricious
appetite. It enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and
every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed
it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he
settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against
her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and
sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He
dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very
quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his
happiness.

"Had a nice little nap?" he smiled, when she woke.

"I've not been sleeping," she answered. "I only just closed my
eyes."

She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a
phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously
inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her health
and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She
went for a `constitutional' every morning that it was fine and
remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she sat
in St. James' Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite
happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting
with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip,
and told Philip with abundant detail the history of the
landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the
people who lived in the next house on either side. Now and then
she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip
about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she
should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of
the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred
did not know her; "I'm one to keep myself to myself," she said,
"I'm not one to go about with anybody.") and she narrated
details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the
most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.

"After all, I'm not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the
doctor says I shan't have any trouble. You see, it isn't as if
I wasn't well made."

Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time
came, had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week.
He was to charge fifteen guineas.

"Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen
strongly recommended him, and I thought it wasn't worth while to
spoil the ship for a coat of tar."

"If you feel happy and comfortable I don't mind a bit about the
expense," said Philip.

She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most
natural thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend
money on her: each five-pound note he gave her caused him a
little thrill of happiness and pride; he gave her a good many,
for she was not economical.

"I don't know where the money goes to," she said herself, "it
seems to slip through my fingers like water."

"It doesn't matter," said Philip. "I'm so glad to be able to do
anything I can for you."

She could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things
for the baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to
buy them. Philip had lately sold one of the mortgages in which
his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds in the
bank waiting to be invested in something that could be more
easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. They
talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that Mildred
should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her
living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had
not also to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one
of the shops of the company for which she had worked before, and
the child could be put with some decent woman in the country.

"I can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and
sixpence a week. It'll be better for the baby and better for
me."

It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with
her she pretended to think he was concerned with the expense.

"You needn't worry about that," she said. "I shan't ask _you_
to pay for it."

"You know I don't care how much I pay."

At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be
still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that
the thought was there. He was shocked at first; and then,
reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all
concerned such an event was to be desired.

"It's all very fine to say this and that," Mildred remarked
querulously, "but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her
living by herself; it doesn't make it any easier when she's got
a baby."

"Fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled Philip,
taking her hand.

"You've been good to me, Philip."

"Oh, what rot!"

"You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for what you've
done."

"Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done anything for
you, I've done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I
don't want you to do anything unless you love me."

He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a
commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an
acknowledgment for services rendered.

"But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to me."

"Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all right again
we'll go for our little honeymoon."

"You are naughty," she said, smiling.

Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as
she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a
fortnight: that would give Philip a chance to work without
interruption for his examination; after that came the Easter
holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris together. Philip
talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was
delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he
knew in the Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of
charming little restaurants; they would go to the play, and he
would take her to music halls. It would amuse her to meet his
friends. He had talked to her about Cronshaw, she would see him;
and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris for a couple of
months; and they would go to the Bai Bullier; there were
excursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres,
Fontainebleau.

"It'll cost a lot of money," she said.

"Oh, damn the expense. Think how I've been looking forward to
it. Don't you know what it means to me? I've never loved anyone
but you. I never shall."

She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he
saw in them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She
was much gentler than she used to be. There was in her no longer
the superciliousness which had irritated him. She was so
accustomed to him now that she took no pains to keep up before
him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair with
the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left
off the vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless
style suited her. Her face was so thin that it made her eyes
seem very large; there were heavy lines under them, and the
pallor of her cheeks made their colour more profound. She had a
wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There seemed to
Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they
could continue in that same way always. He was happier than he
had ever been in his life.

He used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for she liked
to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple
of hours' work to make up for the lost evening. He generally
brushed her hair for her before he went. He had made a ritual of
the kisses he gave her when he bade her good-night; first he
kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers were, the
nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring
them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and
then the left, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with
a heart overflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to
gratify the desire for self-sacrifice which consumed him.

Presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home
where she was to be confined. Philip was then able to visit her
only in the afternoons. Mildred changed her story and
represented herself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to
India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to the
mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law.

"I have to be rather careful what I say," she told him, "as
there's another lady here whose husband's in the Indian Civil."

"I wouldn't let that disturb me if I were you," said Philip.
"I'm convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same
boat."

"What boat?" she asked innocently.

"The Flying Dutchman."

Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was
allowed to see her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was
very weak, but relieved that everything was over. She showed him
the baby, and herself looked at it curiously.

"It's a funny-looking little thing, isn't it? I can't believe
it's mine."

It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at
it. He did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him
because the nurse who owned the house was standing by his side;
and he felt by the way she was looking at him that, disbelieving
Mildred's complicated story, she thought he was the father.

"What are you going to call her?" asked Philip.

"I can't make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or
Cecilia."

The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent
down and kissed Mildred on the mouth.

"I'm so glad it's all over happily, darling."

She put her thin arms round his neck.

"You have been a brick to me, Phil dear."

"Now I feel that you're mine at last. I've waited so long for
you, my dear."

They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up.
The nurse entered. There was a slight smile on her lips.


CHAPTER LXXIII

THREE weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to
Brighton. She had made a quick recovery and looked better than
he had ever seen her. She was going to a boarding-house where
she had spent a couple of weekends with Emil Miller, and had
written to say that her husband was obliged to go to Germany on
business and she was coming down with her baby. She got pleasure
out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain
fertility of invention in the working out of the details.
Mildred proposed to find in Brighton some woman who would be
willing to take charge of the baby. Philip was startled at the
callousness with which she insisted on getting rid of it so
soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor child had
much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philip
had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she
had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to
help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing of the sort
occurred. Mildred was not unkind to her baby; she did all that
was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and she talked about it
a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it. She could
not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembled
its father already. She was continually wondering how she would
manage when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself
for being such a fool as to have it at all.

"If I'd only known then all I do now," she said.

She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare.

"You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said.
"I'd like to see Emil getting into such a stew about it."

Philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of
baby-farming and the ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children
that selfish, cruel parents have put in their charge.

"Don't be so silly," said Mildred. "That's when you give a woman
a sum down to look after a baby. But when you're going to pay so
much a week it's to their interest to look after it well."

Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people
who had no children of their own and would promise to take no
other.

"Don't haggle about the price," he said. "I'd rather pay half a
guinea a week than run any risk of the kid being starved or
beaten."

"You're a funny old thing, Philip," she laughed.

To him there was something very touching in the child's
helplessness. It was small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had
been looked forward to with shame and anguish. Nobody wanted it.
It was dependent on him, a stranger, for food, shelter, and
clothes to cover its nakedness.

As the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the
baby too, but he was afraid she would laugh at him.

"You will write to me, darling, won't you? And I shall look
forward to your coming back with oh! such impatience."

"Mind you get through your exam."

He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten
days before him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to
pass, first to save himself time and expense, for money had been
slipping through his fingers during the last four months with
incredible speed; and then because this examination marked the
end of the drudgery: after that the student had to do with
medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of which was more
vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had been
hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the
rest of the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to
Mildred that he had failed: though the examination was difficult
and the majority of candidates were ploughed at the first
attempt, he knew that she would think less well of him if he did
not succeed; she had a peculiarly humiliating way of showing
what she thought.

Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he
snatched half an hour every day to write a long letter to her.
He had always a certain shyness in expressing himself by word of
mouth, but he found he could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of
things which it would have made him feel ridiculous to say.
Profiting by the discovery he poured out to her his whole heart.
He had never been able to tell her before how his adoration
filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his
thoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future,
the happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he
owed her. He asked himself (he had often asked himself before
but had never put it into words) what it was in her that filled
him with such extravagant delight; he did not know; he knew only
that when she was with him he was happy, and when she was away
from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he knew only
that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his
body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed
against his lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her
presence was almost pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely
weak as though, not having eaten, he were tremulous from want of
food. He looked forward eagerly to her answers. He did not
expect her to write often, for he knew that letter-writing came
difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the clumsy
little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of
the boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather
and the baby, told him she had been for a walk on the front with
a lady-friend whom she had met in the boarding-house and who had
taken such a fancy to baby, she was going to the theatre on
Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up. It touched Philip
because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, the
formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to
take her in his arms and kiss her.

He went into the examination with happy confidence. There was
nothing in either of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew
that he had done well, and though the second part of the
examination was _viva voce_ and he was more nervous, he
managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent a triumphant
telegram to Mildred when the result was announced.

When he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her,
saying that she thought it would be better for her to stay
another week in Brighton. She had found a woman who would be
glad to take the baby for seven shillings a week, but she wanted
to make inquiries about her, and she was herself benefiting so
much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days more would do
her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, but would
he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat,
she couldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same
hat, and her lady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of
bitter disappointment. It took away all his pleasure at getting
through his examination.

"If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn't
bear to stay away a day longer than necessary."

He put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure
selfishness; of course her health was more important than
anything else. But he had nothing to do now; he might spend the
week with her in Brighton, and they could be together all day.
His heart leaped at the thought. It would be amusing to appear
before Mildred suddenly with the information that he had taken
a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he
paused. He was not certain that she would be pleased to see him;
she had made friends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked
boisterous joviality; he realised that she amused herself more
with other people than with him. It would torture him if he felt
for an instant that he was in the way. He was afraid to risk it.
He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing to keep
him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see
her every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him
to come she would have asked him to. He dared not risk the
anguish he would suffer if he proposed to come and she made
excuses to prevent him.

He wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the
end of his letter said that if she were very nice and cared to
see him for the week-end he would be glad to run down; but she
was by no means to alter any plans she had made. He awaited her
answer with impatience. In it she said that if she had only
known before she could have arranged it, but she had promised to
go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, it would make
the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Why
did he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could
lunch at the Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see
the very superior lady-like person who was going to take the
baby.

Sunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train
approached Brighton the sun poured through the carriage window.
Mildred was waiting for him on the platform.

"How jolly of you to come and meet me!" he cried, as he seized
her hands.

"You expected me, didn't you?"

"I hoped you would. I say, how well you're looking."

"It's done me a rare lot of good, but I think I'm wise to stay
here as long as I can. And there are a very nice class of people
at the boarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody
all these months. It was dull sometimes."

She looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with
a great many inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck
floated a long boa of imitation swansdown. She was still very
thin, and she stooped a little when she walked (she had always
done that,) but her eyes did not seem so large; and though she
never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy look it had.
They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had not
walked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp
and walked stiffly in the attempt to conceal it.

"Are you glad to see me?" he asked, love dancing madly in his
heart.

"Of course I am. You needn't ask that."

"By the way, Griffiths sends you his love."

"What cheek!"

He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her
how flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the
narration of some adventure which Griffiths under the seal of
secrecy had imparted to him. Mildred had listened, with some
pretence of disgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and
Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his friend's good looks
and charm.

"I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's so jolly
and amusing, and he's such an awfully good sort."

Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths
had nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths'
self-sacrifice lost nothing.

"You can't help liking him," said Philip.

"I don't like good-looking men," said Mildred. "They're too
conceited for me."

"He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you an awful
lot."

"What have you said?" asked Mildred.

Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for
Mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story of
his connection with her. He described her to him fifty times. He
dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and Griffiths
knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her
face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the charm
of her pale, thin lips.

"By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that," he
said. "Life wouldn't be worth living."

Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so
madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air one
breathed and whatever else was essential to existence. Griffiths
knew that Philip had looked after the girl while she was having
her baby and was now going away with her.

"Well, I must say you've deserved to get something," he
remarked. "It must have cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you
can afford it."

"I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!"

Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one
of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched
the people pass. There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in
twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the
Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches. They
could tell the people who had come down from London for the day;
the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were many
Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little
corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were
middle-aged gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large
hotels, carefully dressed; and they walked industriously after
too substantial a breakfast to give themselves an appetite for
too substantial a luncheon: they exchanged the time of day with
friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or London-by-the-Sea. Here
and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately unconscious of
the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather
boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a
silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had
come from a day's shooting, he strolled in knickerbockers, and
ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat on the back of his head.
The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea was trim and
neat.

After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to
take charge of the baby. She lived in a small house in a back
street, but it was clean and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding.
She was an elderly, stout person, with gray hair and a red,
fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and Philip thought
she seemed kind.

"Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he
asked her.

She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older
than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since
vicars wanted young men to assist them; he earned a little now
and then by doing locums when someone took a holiday or fell
ill, and a charitable institution gave them a small pension; but
her life was lonely, it would be something to do to look after
a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help her
to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed.

"Quite the lady, isn't she?" said Mildred, when they went away.

They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the
crowd and the band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched
her face as she looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the
women who came in. She had a peculiar sharpness for reckoning up
what things cost, and now and then she leaned over to him and
whispered the result of her meditations.

"D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven
guineas."

Or: "Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit, that is--that's
not ermine." She laughed triumphantly. "I'd know it a mile off."

Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and the
ingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The
band played sentimental music.

After dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took
her arm. He told her what arrangements he had made for their
journey to France. She was to come up to London at the end of
the week, but she told him that she could not go away till the
Saturday of the week after that. He had already engaged a room
in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to taking
the tickets.

"You won't mind going second-class, will you? We mustn't be
extravagant, and it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves
pretty well when we get there."

He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would
wander through its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly
in the charming gardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was
fine perhaps, when they had had enough of Paris, they might go
to Fontainebleau. The trees would be just bursting into leaf.
The green of the forest in spring was more beautiful than
anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the happy
pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and
tried to look deep into her eyes.

"You do want to come, don't you?" he said.

"Of course I do," she smiled.

"You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I don't know how
I shall get through the next days. I'm so afraid something will
happen to prevent it. It maddens me sometimes that I can't tell
you how much I love you. And at last, at last..."

He broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on
the way, and Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed
her quickly and ran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She
stood where he left her. He was strangely grotesque when he ran.


CHAPTER LXXIV

THE following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip
kept her to himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank
champagne at dinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so
long that she enjoyed everything ingenuously. She cuddled up to
Philip when they drove from the theatre to the room he had taken
for her in Pimlico.

"I really believe you're quite glad to see me," he said.

She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations
of affection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted.

"I've asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow," he told her.

"Oh, I'm glad you've done that. I wanted to meet him."

There was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday
night, and Philip was afraid she would be bored if she were
alone with him all day. Griffiths was amusing; he would help
them to get through the evening; and Philip was so fond of them
both that he wanted them to know and to like one another. He
left Mildred with the words:

"Only six days more."

They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano's on Sunday,
because the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a
good deal more than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and
had to wait some time for Griffiths.

"He's an unpunctual devil," said Philip. "He's probably making
love to one of his numerous flames."

But presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and
thin; his head was placed well on the body, it gave him a
conquering air which was attractive; and his curly hair, his
bold, friendly blue eyes, his red mouth, were charming. Philip
saw Mildred look at him with appreciation, and he felt a curious
satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile.

"I've heard a great deal about you," he said to Mildred, as he
took her hand.

"Not so much as I've heard about you," she answered.

"Nor so bad," said. Philip.

"Has he been blackening my character?"

Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white
and regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.

"You ought to feel like old friends," said Philip. "I've talked
so much about you to one another."

Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length
passed his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just
been appointed house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of
London. He was taking up his duties at the beginning of May and
meanwhile was going home for a holiday; this was his last week
in town, and he was determined to get as much enjoyment into it
as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which Philip
admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in
what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from
him a force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was
almost as sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively
than Philip had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that
his little party was a success. She was amusing herself
enormously. She laughed louder and louder. She quite forgot the
genteel reserve which had become second nature to her.

Presently Griffiths said:

"I say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs.
Miller. Philip never calls you anything but Mildred."

"I daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you call her that
too," laughed Philip.

"Then she must call me Harry."

Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good
it was to see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a
little, kindly, because he was always so serious.

"I believe he's quite fond of you, Philip," smiled Mildred.

"He isn't a bad old thing," answered Griffiths, and taking
Philip's hand he shook it gaily.

It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They
were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their
heads. Griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that
Philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet. He had a gift for
story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their romance
and their laughter in his narration. He played in all of them a
gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with
excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote.
When the lights began to be turned out she was astonished.

"My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn't more
than half past nine."

They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:

"I'm coming to have tea at Philip's room tomorrow. You might
look in if you can."

"All right," he smiled.

On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but
Griffiths. She was taken with his good looks, his well-cut
clothes, his voice, his gaiety.

"I am glad you like him," said Philip. "D'you remember you were
rather sniffy about meeting him?"

"I think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is
a nice friend for you to have."

She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a
thing she did rarely.

"I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much."

"Don't be so absurd," he laughed, touched by her appreciation so
that he felt the moisture come to his eyes.

She opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to
Philip.

"Tell Harry I'm madly in love with him," she said.

"All right," he laughed. "Good-night."

Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank
lazily into an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual
in the slow movements of his large limbs. Philip remained
silent, while the others chattered away, but he was enjoying
himself. He admired them both so much that it seemed natural
enough for them to admire one another. He did not care if
Griffiths absorbed Mildred's attention, he would have her to
himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of
a loving husband, confident in his wife's affection, who looks
on with amusement while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger.
But at half past seven he looked at his watch and said:

"It's about time we went out to dinner, Mildred."

There was a moment's pause, and Griffiths seemed to be
considering.

"Well, I'll be getting along," he said at last. "I didn't know
it was so late."

"Are you doing anything tonight?" asked Mildred.

"No."

There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.

"I'll just go and have a wash," he said, and to Mildred he
added: "Would you like to wash your hands?"

She did not answer him.

"Why don't you come and dine with us?" she said to Griffiths.

He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.

"I dined with you last night," he laughed. "I should be in the
way."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," insisted Mildred. "Make him come,
Philip. He won't be in the way, will he?"

"Let him come by all means if he'd like to."

"All right, then," said Griffiths promptly. "I'll just go
upstairs and tidy myself."

The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.

"Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?"

"I couldn't help myself. It would have looked so funny to say
nothing when he said he wasn't doing anything."

"Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing
anything?"

Mildred's pale lips tightened a little.

"I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being
alone with you."

They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip
went into his bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood
in an Italian restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he
quickly realised that he was showing to disadvantage in
comparison with Griffiths, and he forced himself to hide his
annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the pain that
was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred,
as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to
make herself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate.
Presently Philip began to think he had been a fool to surrender
to a feeling of jealousy. After dinner when they got into a
hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred, sitting between the two
men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His anger vanished.
Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that Griffiths was
holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently, it
was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken,
what he might have asked himself before, whether Mildred and
Griffiths were in love with one another. He could not see
anything of the performance on account of the mist of suspicion,
anger, dismay, and wretchedness which seemed to be before his
eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact that anything
was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a strange
desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he
wanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had
never been alone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them
by themselves.

"I'll come too," said Griffiths. "I've got rather a thirst on."

"Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred."

Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them
together now to make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He
did not go to the bar, but up into the balcony, from where he
could watch them and not be seen. They had ceased to look at the
stage and were smiling into one another's eyes. Griffiths was
talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to hang
on his lips. Philip's head began to ache frightfully. He stood
there motionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went
back. They were enjoying themselves without him, and he was
suffering, suffering. Time passed, and now he had an
extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He knew they had not
thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he had
paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a
fool they were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could
see how happy they were without him. His instinct was to leave
them to themselves and go home, but he had not his hat and coat,
and it would necessitate endless explanations. He went back. He
felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred's eyes when she saw him,
and his heart sank.

"You've been a devil of a time," said Griffiths, with a smile of
welcome.

"I met some men I knew. I've been talking to them, and I
couldn't get away. I thought you'd be all right together."

"I've been enjoying myself thoroughly," said Griffiths. "I don't
know about Mildred."

She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar
sound in the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that
they should go.

"Come on," said Griffiths, "we'll both drive you home."

Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that
she might not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take
her hand nor did she offer it, and he knew all the time that she
was holding Griffiths'. His chief thought was that it was all so
horribly vulgar. As they drove along he asked himself what plans
they had made to meet without his knowledge, he cursed himself
for having left them alone, he had actually gone out of his way
to enable them to arrange things.

"Let's keep the cab," said Philip, when they reached the house
in which Mildred was lodging. "I'm too tired to walk home."

On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to
the fact that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he
must notice that something was the matter. Philip's silence at
last grew too significant to struggle against, and Griffiths,
suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip wanted to say
something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself to,
and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost.
It was best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to
speak.

"Are you in love with Mildred?" he asked suddenly.

"I?" Griffiths laughed. "Is that what you've been so funny about
this evening? Of course not, my dear old man."

He tried to slip his hand through Philip's arm, but Philip drew
himself away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring
himself to force Griffiths to tell him that he had not been
holding the girl's hand. He suddenly felt very weak and broken.

"It doesn't matter to you, Harry," he said. "You've got so many
women--don't take her away from me. It means my whole life. I've
been so awfully wretched."

His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn
from him. He was horribly ashamed of himself.

"My dear old boy, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you.
I'm far too fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool.
If I'd known you were going to take it like that I'd have been
more careful."

"Is that true?" asked Philip.

"I don't care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of
honour."

Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.


CHAPTER LXXV

NEXT day Philip was in a good temper. He was very anxious not to
bore Mildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged
that he should not see her till dinner-time. She was ready when
he fetched her, and he chaffed her for her unwonted punctuality.
She was wearing a new dress he had given her. He remarked on its
smartness.

"It'll have to go back and be altered," she said. "The skirt
hangs all wrong."

"You'll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take
it to Paris with you."

"It'll be ready in time for that."

"Only three more whole days. We'll go over by the eleven
o'clock, shall we?"

"If you like."

He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His
eyes rested on her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh
a little at his own passion.

"I wonder what it is I see in you," he smiled.

"That's a nice thing to say," she answered.

Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her
chest was as flat as a boy's. Her mouth, with its narrow pale
lips, was ugly, and her skin was faintly green.

"I shall give you Blaud's Pills in quantities when we're away,"
said Philip, laughing. "I'm going to bring you back fat and
rosy."

"I don't want to get fat," she said.

She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were
dining Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and
his power over her, said:

"It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry
last night?"

"I told you I was in love with him," she laughed.

"I'm glad to know that he's not in love with you."

"How d'you know?"

"I asked him."

She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam
came into her eyes.

"Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?"

She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths'
bold, legible writing. There were eight pages. It was well
written, frank and charming; it was the letter of a man who was
used to making love to women. He told Mildred that he loved her
passionately, he had fallen in love with her the first moment he
saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond
Philip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was
such a dear, and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was
not his fault, he was just carried away. He paid her delightful
compliments. Finally he thanked her for consenting to lunch with
him next day and said he was dreadfully impatient to see her.
Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night before;
Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had
taken the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he
was in bed.

He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave
no outward sign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with
a smile, calmly.

"Did you enjoy your lunch?"

"Rather," she said emphatically.

He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the
table.

"You mustn't take Griffiths too seriously. He's just a
butterfly, you know."

She took the letter and looked at it again.

"I can't help it either," she said, in a voice which she tried
to make nonchalant. "I don't know what's come over me."

"It's a little awkward for me, isn't it?" said Philip.

She gave him a quick look.

"You're taking it pretty calmly, I must say."

"What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to tear out my hair
in handfuls?"

"I knew you'd be angry with me."

"The funny thing is, I'm not at all. I ought to have known this
would happen. I was a fool to bring you together. I know
perfectly well that he's got every advantage over me; he's much
jollier, and he's very handsome, he's more amusing, he can talk
to you about the things that interest you."

"I don't know what you mean by that. If I'm not clever I can't
help it, but I'm not the fool you think I am, not by a long way,
I can tell you. You're a bit too superior for me, my young
friend."

"D'you want to quarrel with me?" he asked mildly.

"No, but I don't see why you should treat me as if I was I don't
know what."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to talk
things over quietly. We don't want to make a mess of them if we
can help it. I saw you were attracted by him and it seemed to me
very natural. The only thing that really hurts me is that he
should have encouraged you. He knew how awfully keen I was on
you. I think it's rather shabby of him to have written that
letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn't care
twopence about you."

"If you think you're going to make me like him any the less by
saying nasty things about him, you're mistaken."

Philip was silent for a moment. He did not know what words he
could use to make her see his point of view. He wanted to speak
coolly and deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion
that he could not clear his thoughts.

"It's not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation
that you know can't last. After all, he doesn't care for anyone
more than ten days, and you're rather cold; that sort of thing
doesn't mean very much to you."

"That's what you think."

She made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous
tone.

"If you're in love with him you can't help it. I'll just bear it
as best I can. We get on very well together, you and I, and I've
not behaved badly to you, have I? I've always known that you're
not in love with me, but you like me all right, and when we get
over to Paris you'll forget about Griffiths. If you make up your
mind to put him out of your thoughts you won't find it so hard
as all that, and I've deserved that you should do something for
me."

She did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. When
the silence grew oppressive Philip began to talk of indifferent
things. He pretended not to notice that Mildred was inattentive.
Her answers were perfunctory, and she volunteered no remarks of
her own. At last she interrupted abruptly what he was saying:

"Philip, I'm afraid I shan't be able to go away on Saturday. The
doctor says I oughtn't to."

He knew this was not true, but he answered:

"When will you be able to come away?"

She glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and
looked nervously away. She was at that moment a little afraid of
him.

"I may as well tell you and have done with it, I can't come away
with you at all."

"I thought you were driving at that. It's too late to change
your mind now. I've got the tickets and everything."

"You said you didn't wish me to go unless I wanted it too, and
I don't."

"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to have any more tricks
played with me. You must come."

"I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I can't bear to
think of anything else. I don't like you that way. I couldn't,
Philip."

"You were quite willing to a week ago."

"It was different then."

"You hadn't met Griffiths?"

"You said yourself I couldn't help it if I'm in love with him."

Her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed
on her plate. Philip was white with rage. He would have liked to
hit her in the face with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw
how she would look with a black eye. There were two lads of
eighteen dining at a table near them, and now and then they
looked at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him dining with a
pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his shoes.
It was Mildred who broke the silence.

"What's the good of our going away together? I'd be thinking of
him all the time. It wouldn't be much fun for you."

"That's my business," he answered.

She thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened.

"But that's just beastly."

"What of it?"

"I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word."

"You were mistaken."

His reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it.

"For God's sake don't laugh," she cried. "I can't come away with
you, Philip. I'm awfully sorry. I know I haven't behaved well to
you, but one can't force themselves."

"Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I did
everything for you? I planked out the money to keep you till
your baby was born, I paid for your doctor and everything, I
paid for you to go to Brighton, and I'm paying for the keep of
your baby, I'm paying for your clothes, I'm paying for every
stitch you've got on now."

"If you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what you've done for
me in my face."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. What d'you suppose I care if
I'm a gentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn't waste
my time with a vulgar slut like you. I don't care a damn if you
like me or not. I'm sick of being made a blasted fool of. You're
jolly well coming to Paris with me on Saturday or you can take
the consequences."

Her cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice
had the hard commonness which she concealed generally by a
genteel enunciation.

"I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced
yourself on me, I always hated it when you kissed me. I wouldn't
let you touch me now not if I was starving."

Philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles
of his throat refused to act. He gulped down something to drink
and lit a cigarette. He was trembling in every part. He did not
speak. He waited for her to move, but she sat in silence,
staring at the white tablecloth. If they had been alone he would
have flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately; he
fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he pressed
upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without
speaking, and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare
at them curiously. He called for the bill.

"Shall we go?" he said then, in an even tone.

She did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves.
She put on her coat.

"When are you seeing Griffiths again?"

"Tomorrow," she answered indifferently.

"You'd better talk it over with him."

She opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it.
She took it out.

"Here's the bill for this dress," she said hesitatingly.

"What of it?"

"I promised I'd give her the money tomorrow."

"Did you?"

"Does that mean you won't pay for it after having told me I
could get it?"

"It does."

"I'll ask Harry," she said, flushing quickly.

"He'll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the
moment, and he pawned his microscope last week, because he was
so broke."

"You needn't think you can frighten me by that. I'm quite
capable of earning my own living."

"It's the best thing you can do. I don't propose to give you a
farthing more."

She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby's keep, but
did not say anything. They left the restaurant, and in the
street Philip asked her:

"Shall I call a cab for you? I'm going to take a little stroll."

"I haven't got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon."

"It won't hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I
shall be in about tea-time."

He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a
moment and saw that she was standing helplessly where he had
left her, looking at the traffic. He went back and with a laugh
pressed a coin into her hand.

"Here's two bob for you to get home with."

Before she could speak he hurried away.


CHAPTER LXXVI

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

"Come in," said Philip.

He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to
begin.

"Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night," she
said.

"Oh, that's all right."

She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid,
ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for
naughtiness and wants to reconcile himself with his master.

"I've been lunching with Harry," she said.

"Have you?"

"If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip,
I'll come."

A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a
sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a
suspicion.

"Because of the money?" he asked.

"Partly," she answered simply. "Harry can't do anything. He owes
five weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor's
pressing him for money. He'd pawn anything he could, but he's
pawned everything already. I had a job to put the woman off
about my new dress, and on Saturday there's the book at my
lodgings, and I can't get work in five minutes. It always means
waiting some little time till there's a vacancy."

She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were
recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part
of the natural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew
what she told him well enough.

"You said partly," he observed at last.

"Well, Harry says you've been a brick to both of us. You've been
a real good friend to him, he says, and you've done for me what
p'raps no other man would have done. We must do the straight
thing, he says. And he said what you said about him, that he's
fickle by nature, he's not like you, and I should be a fool to
throw you away for him. He won't last and you will, he says so
himself."

"D'you _want_ to come away with me?" asked Philip.

"I don't mind."

He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an
expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going
to have his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own
humiliation. She looked at him quickly, but did not speak.

"I've looked forward with all my soul to going away with you,
and I thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going
to be happy..."

He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a
sudden, without warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears.
She was sitting in the chair in which Norah had sat and wept,
and like her she hid her face on the back of it, towards the
side where there was a little bump formed by the sagging in the
middle, where the head had rested.

"I'm not lucky with women," thought Philip.

Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a
woman cry with such an utter abandonment. It was horribly
painful, and his heart was torn. Without realising what he did,
he went up to her and put his arms round her; she did not
resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself to his
comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He
scarcely knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed
her repeatedly.

"Are you awfully unhappy?" he said at last.

"I wish I was dead," she moaned. "I wish I'd died when the baby
come."

Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He
placed her head more comfortably in the chair, and then he went
and sat down at the table and looked at her.

"It is awful, love, isn't it?" he said. "Fancy anyone wanting to
be in love."

Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in
the chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms
hanging by her side. She had the grotesque look of one of those
painters' dummies used to hang draperies on.

"I didn't know you loved him so much as all that," said Philip.

He understood Griffiths' love well enough, for he put himself in
Griffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands;
he was able to think himself in Griffiths' body, and he kissed
her with his lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It
was her emotion that surprised him. He had never thought her
capable of passion, and this was passion: there was no mistaking
it. Something seemed to give way in his heart; it really felt to
him as though something were breaking, and he felt strangely
weak.

"I don't want to make you unhappy. You needn't come away with me
if you don't want to. I'll give you the money all the same."

She shook her head.

"No, I said I'd come, and I'll come."

"What's the good, if you're sick with love for him?"

"Yes, that's the word. I'm sick with love. I know it won't last,
just as well as he does, but just now..."

She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint.
A strange idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came,
without stopping to think it out.

"Why don't you go away with him?"

"How can I? You know we haven't got the money."

"I'll give you the money"

"You?"

She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the
colour came into her cheeks.

"Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you'd
come back to me."

Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish,
and yet the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation.
She stared at him with open eyes.

"Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn't think of it."

"Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him."

Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all
his heart to refuse vehemently.

"I'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to
Monday. You could easily do that. On Monday he's going home till
he takes up his appointment at the North London."

"Oh, Philip, do you mean that?" she cried, clasping her hands.
"if you could only let us go--I would love you so much
afterwards, I'd do anything for you. I'm sure I shall get over
it if you'll only do that. Would you really give us the money?"

"Yes," he said.

She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see
that she was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by
Philip's side, taking his hands.

"You are a brick, Philip. You're the best fellow I've ever
known. Won't you be angry with me afterwards?"

He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!

"May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you
don't mind? He won't consent unless you promise it doesn't
matter. Oh, you don't know how I love him! And afterwards I'll
do anything you like. I'll come over to Paris with you or
anywhere on Monday."

She got up and put on her hat.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to ask him if he'll take me."

"Already?"

"D'you want me to stay? I'll stay if you like."

She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.

"No, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once. There's only
one thing: I can't bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt
me too awfully. Say I have no ill-feeling towards him or
anything like that, but ask him to keep out of my way."

"All right." She sprang up and put on her gloves. "I'll let you
know what he says."

"You'd better dine with me tonight."

"Very well."

She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his
lips to hers she threw her arms round his neck.

"You are a darling, Philip."

She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had
a headache and could not dine with him. Philip had almost
expected it. He knew that she was dining with Griffiths. He was
horribly jealous, but the sudden passion which had seized the
pair of them seemed like something that had come from the
outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he felt
himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one
another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over
himself and confessed that in Mildred's place he would have done
as Mildred did. What hurt him most was Griffiths' treachery;
they had been such good friends, and Griffiths knew how
passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might have spared
him.

He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a
sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he
had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed
in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her. He saw now why she and
Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid!
he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid
and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter
selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his
appetites. And how inane was the life he led, lounging about
bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour
to another! He never read a book, he was blind to everything
that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that
was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that was
his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he
pleased Mildred. They suited one another.

Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of
them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her
no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two evenings
before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. He
was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly
grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying
little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so
indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take
exception to them. At last she got up.

"I think I must be going off now," she said.

"I daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered.

She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the
door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he
knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his
shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he
frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when
occasion arose to assume the same manner.

"You haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said at last, as
he held open the door.

"What is that?"

"About the money"

"How much d'you want?"

He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words
peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at
that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she
prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her
suffer.

"There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's all. Harry
won't come, so we shan't want money for that."

Philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let
the door handle go. The door swung to.

"Why not?"

"He says we couldn't, not on your money."

A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always
lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that
Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he could not
help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths through her.

"I don't see why not, if I'm willing," he said.

"That's what I told him."

"I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn't
hesitate."

"Oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. He'd go at once if he
had the money."

"If he's squeamish about it I'll give _you_ the money."

"I said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it back as soon
as we could."

"It's rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man
to take you away for a week-end."

"It is rather, isn't it?" she said, with a shameless little
laugh. It sent a cold shudder down Philip's spine.

"What are you going to do then?" he asked.

"Nothing. He's going home tomorrow. He must."

That would be Philip's salvation. With Griffiths out of the way
he could get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would
be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone together
he could soon make her forget this infatuation. If he said
nothing more he was safe. But he had a fiendish desire to break
down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could
behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would
yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their
dishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in
the torture a horrible delight.

"It looks as if it were now or never."

"That's what I told him," she said.

There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He
was biting his nails in his nervousness.

"Where were you thinking of going?"

"Oh, to Oxford. He was at the 'Varsity there, you know. He said
he'd show me the colleges."

Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for
the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at
the thought of sights.

"And it looks as if you'd have fine weather. It ought to be very
jolly there just now."

"I've done all I could to persuade him."

"Why don't you have another try?"

"Shall I say you want us to go?"

"I don't think you must go as far as that," said Philip.

She paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced
himself to look at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he
despised her, he loved her with all his heart.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go and see if he can't arrange
it. And then, if he says yes, I'll come and fetch the money
tomorrow. When shall you be in?"

"I'll come back here after luncheon and wait."

"All right."

"I'll give you the money for your dress and your room now."

He went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress
was six guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and
the baby's keep for a week. He gave her eight pounds ten.

"Thanks very much," she said.

She left him.


CHAPTER LXXVII

AFTER lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went
back to his rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady
was cleaning the stairs.

"Is Mr. Griffiths in?" he asked.

"No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out."

"Isn't he coming back?"

"I don't think so, sir. He's taken his luggage."

Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began
to read. It was Burton's _Journey to Meccah_, which he had
just got out of the Westminster Public Library; and he read the
first page, but could make no sense of it, for his mind was
elsewhere; he was listening all the time for a ring at the bell.
He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away already, without
Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would be coming
presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he tried
desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched
themselves in his brain by the force of his effort, but they
were distorted by the agony he was enduring. He wished with all
his heart that he had not made the horrible proposition to give
them money; but now that he had made it he lacked the strength
to go back on it, not on Mildred's account, but on his own.
There was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the
thing he had determined. He discovered that the three pages he
had read had made no impression on him at all; and he went back
and started from the beginning: he found himself reading one
sentence over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with
his thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare. One
thing he could do was to go out and keep away till midnight;
they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house
every hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of their
disappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself
mechanically. But he could not do that. Let them come and take
the money, and he would know then to what depths of infamy it
was possible for men to descend. He could not read any more now.
He simply could not see the words. He leaned back in his chair,
closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred.

The landlady came in.

"Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?"

"Show her in."

Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign
of what he was feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on
his knees and seize her hands and beg her not to go; but he knew
there was no way of moving her; she would tell Griffiths what he
had said and how he acted. He was ashamed.

"Well, how about the little jaunt?" he said gaily.

"We're going. Harry's outside. I told him you didn't want to see
him, so he's kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he
can come in just for a minute to say good-bye to you."

"No, I won't see him," said Philip.

He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now
that she was there he wanted her to go quickly.

"Look here, here's the fiver. I'd like you to go now."

She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room.

"When are you coming back?" he asked.

"Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then."

He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was
broken down with jealousy and desire.

"Then I shall see you, shan't I?"

He could not help the note of appeal in his voice.

"Of course. I'll let you know the moment I'm back."

He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her
jump into a four-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away.
Then he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands.
He felt tears coming to his eyes, and he was angry with himself;
he clenched his hands and screwed up his body to prevent them;
but he could not; and great painful sobs were forced from him.

He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face.
He mixed himself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a
little better. Then he caught sight of the tickets to Paris,
which were on the chimney-piece, and, seizing them, with an
impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. He knew he could have
got the money back on them, but it relieved him to destroy them.
Then he went out in search of someone to be with. The club was
empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk
to; but Lawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward's rooms: the
maid who opened the door told him that he had gone down to
Brighton for the week-end. Then Philip went to a gallery and
found it was just closing. He did not know what to do. He was
distracted. And he thought of Griffiths and Mildred going to
Oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. He
went back to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had
been so wretched in them; he tried once more to read Burton's
book, but, as he read, he told himself again and again what a
fool he had been; it was he who had made the suggestion that
they should go away, he had offered the money, he had forced it
upon them; he might have known what would happen when he
introduced Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion was
enough to arouse the other's desire. By this time they had
reached Oxford. They would put up in one of the lodging-houses
in John Street; Philip had never been to Oxford, but Griffiths
had talked to him about it so much that he knew exactly where
they would go; and they would dine at the Clarendon: Griffiths
had been in the habit of dining there when he went on the spree.
Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near Charing
Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards
he fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of
Oscar Wilde's pieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred
and Griffiths would go to a play that evening: they must kill
the evening somehow; they were too stupid, both of them to
content themselves with conversation: he got a fierce delight in
reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which suited
them so exactly to one another. He watched the play with an
abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking
whiskey in each interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it
affected him quickly, but his drunkenness was savage and morose.
When the play was over he had another drink. He could not go to
bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded the pictures
which his vivid imagination would place before him. He tried not
to think of them. He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was
seized with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to
roll himself in gutters; his whole being yearned for
beastliness; he wanted to grovel.

He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk,
with rage and misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a
painted harlot, who put her hand on his arm; he pushed her
violently away with brutal words. He walked on a few steps and
then stopped. She would do as well as another. He was sorry he
had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to her.

"I say," he began.

"Go to hell," she said.

Philip laughed.

"I merely wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of supping
with me tonight."

She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She
saw he was drunk.

"I don't mind."

He was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often
on Mildred's lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had
been in the habit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they
walked along that she looked down at his limb.

"I've got a club-foot," he said. "Have you any objection?"

"You are a cure," she laughed.

When he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there
was a hammering that made him nearly scream. He took another
whiskey and soda to steady himself, and going to bed sank into
a dreamless sleep till mid-day.


CHAPTER LXXVIII

AT LAST Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture was
over. looking out the trains he found that the latest by which
Griffiths could reach home that night left Oxford soon after
one, and he supposed that Mildred would take one which started
a few minutes later to bring her to London. His desire was to go
and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like to be left alone
for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to
say she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next
morning: his spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred for
Griffiths, but for Mildred, notwithstanding all that had passed,
only a heart-rending desire. He was glad now that Hayward was
not in London on Saturday afternoon when, distraught, he went in
search of human comfort: he could not have prevented himself
from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been
astonished at his weakness. He would despise him, and perhaps be
shocked or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of
making Mildred his mistress after she had given herself to
another man. What did he care if it was shocking or disgusting?
He was ready for any compromise, prepared for more degrading
humiliations still, if he could only gratify his desire.

Towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the
house in which she lived, and he looked up at her window. It was
dark. He did not venture to ask if she was back. He was
confident in her promise. But there was no letter from her in
the morning, and, when about mid-day he called, the maid told
him she had not arrived. He could not understand it. He knew
that Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day
before, for he was to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had
no money. He turned over in his mind every possible thing that
might have happened. He went again in the afternoon and left a
note, asking her to dine with him that evening as calmly as
though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. He
mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and
hoping against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for
an hour she did not come. On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to
ask at the house and sent a messenger-boy with a letter and
instructions to bring back a reply; but in an hour the boy came
back with Philip's letter unopened and the answer that the lady
had not returned from the country. Philip was beside himself.
The last deception was more than he could bear. He repeated to
himself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and,
ascribing to Griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so
much that he knew what was the delight of murder: he walked
about considering what a joy it would be to come upon him on a
dark night and stick a knife into his throat, just about the
carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a dog.
Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. He did not
like whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed
drunk on the Tuesday and on the Wednesday night.

On Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself,
blear-eyed and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there
were any letters. A curious feeling shot through his heart when
he recognised the handwriting of Griffiths.


_Dear old man:

I hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write.
I hope you're not awfully angry with me. I know I oughtn't to
have gone away with Milly, but I simply couldn't help myself.
She simply carried me off my feet and I would have done anything
to get her. When she told me you had offered us the money to go
I simply couldn't resist. And now it's all over I'm awfully
ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn't been such a fool. I wish
you'd write and say you're not angry with me, and I want you to
let me come and see you. I was awfully hurt at your telling
Milly you didn't want to see me. Do write me a line, there's a
good chap, and tell me you forgive me. It'll ease my conscience.
I thought you wouldn't mind or you wouldn't have offered the
money. But I know I oughtn't to have taken it. I came home on
Monday and Milly wanted to stay a couple of days at Oxford by
herself. She's going back to London on Wednesday, so by the time
you receive this letter you will have seen her and I hope
everything will go off all right. Do write and say you forgive
me. Please write at once.
                                                      yours ever,
                                                        Harry._


Philip tore up the letter furiously. He did not mean to answer
it. He despised Griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience
with his prickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing
if one chose, but it was contemptible to regret it afterwards.
He thought the letter cowardly and hypocritical. He was
disgusted at its sentimentality.

"It would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing," he
muttered to himself, "and then say you were sorry, and that put
it all right again."

He hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to
do Griffiths a bad turn.

But at all events he knew that Mildred was in town. He dressed
hurriedly, not waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a
cab to her rooms. The cab seemed to crawl. He was painfully
anxious to see her, and unconsciously he uttered a prayer to the
God he did not believe in to make her receive him kindly. He
only wanted to forget. With beating heart he rang the bell. He
forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to enfold her
once more in his arms.

"Is Mrs. Miller in?" he asked joyously.

"She's gone," the maid answered.

He looked at her blankly.

"She came about an hour ago and took away her things."

For a moment he did not know what to say.

"Did you give her my letter? Did she say where she was going?"

Then he understood that Mildred had deceived him again. She was
not coming back to him. He made an effort to save his face.

"Oh, well, I daresay I shall hear from her. She may have sent a
letter to another address."

He turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. He might
have known that she would do this; she had never cared for him,
she had made a fool of him from the beginning; she had no pity,
she had no kindness, she had no charity. The only thing was to
accept the inevitable. The pain he was suffering was horrible,
he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the thought came to
him that it would be better to finish with the whole thing: he
might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway
line; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he
rebelled against it. His reason told him that he would get over
his unhappiness in time; if he tried with all his might he could
forget her; and it would be grotesque to kill himself on account
of a vulgar slut. He had only one life, and it was madness to
fling it away. He _felt_ that he would never overcome his
passion, but he _knew_ that after all it was only a matter of
time.

He would not stay in London. There everything reminded him of
his unhappiness. He telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming
to Blackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he
could. He wanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he
had endured so much suffering. He wanted to breathe clean air.
He was disgusted with himself. He felt that he was a little mad.


Since he was grown up Philip had been given the best spare room
at the vicarage. It was a corner-room and in front of one window
was an old tree which blocked the view, but from the other you
saw, beyond the garden and the vicarage field, broad meadows.
Philip remembered the wall-paper from his earliest years. On the
walls were quaint water colours of the early Victorian period by
a friend of the Vicar's youth. They had a faded charm. The
dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. There was an old
tall-boy to put your clothes in. Philip gave a sigh of pleasure;
he had never realised that all those things meant anything to
him at all. At the vicarage life went on as it had always done.
No piece of furniture had been moved from one place to another;
the Vicar ate the same things, said the same things, went for
the same walk every day; he had grown a little fatter, a little
more silent, a little more narrow. He had become accustomed to
living without his wife and missed her very little. He bickered
still with Josiah Graves. Philip went to see the churchwarden.
He was a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere;
he was autocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the
altar. The shops had still a pleasant quaintness; and Philip
stood in front of that in which things useful to seamen were
sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and tackle, and remembered that
he had felt there in his childhood the thrill of the sea and the
adventurous magic of the unknown.

He could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the
postman in case there might be a letter from Mildred sent on by
his landlady in London; but he knew that there would be none.
Now that he could think it out more calmly he understood that in
trying to force Mildred to love him he had been attempting the
impossible. He did not know what it was that passed from a man
to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them a slave:
it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was
no more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion
so vehement an attraction to one person rather than another. It
was irresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship,
gratitude, interest, had no power beside it. Because he had not
attracted Mildred sexually, nothing that he did had any effect
upon her. The idea revolted him; it made human nature beastly;
and he felt suddenly that the hearts of men were full of dark
places. Because Mildred was indifferent to him he had thought
her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body with
its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner,
carried out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden
passions which made her willing to risk everything to gratify
them. He had never understood her adventure with Emil Miller: it
had seemed so unlike her, and she had never been able to explain
it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths he knew that
just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried off
her feet by an ungovernable desire. He tried to think out what
those two men had which so strangely attracted her. They both
had a vulgar facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of
humour, and a certain coarseness of nature; but what took her
perhaps was the blatant sexuality which was their most marked
characteristic. She had a genteel refinement which shuddered at
the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions as
indecent she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she
always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple
one: the brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin
white shoulders, and she shuddered with voluptuous pain.

One thing Philip had made up his mind about. He would not go
back to the lodgings in which he had suffered. He wrote to his
landlady and gave her notice. He wanted to have his own things
about him. He determined to take unfurnished rooms: it would be
pleasant and cheaper; and this was an urgent consideration, for
during the last year and a half he had spent nearly seven
hundred pounds. He must make up for it now by the most rigid
economy. Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he
had been a fool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew
that if it were to come again he would act in the same way. It
amused him sometimes to consider that his friends, because he
had a face which did not express his feelings very vividly and
a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as strong-minded,
deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and praised
his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no
more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the
protective colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished
at the weakness of his will. It seemed to him that he was swayed
by every light emotion, as though he were a leaf in the wind,
and when passion seized him he was powerless. He had no
self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because he was
indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.

He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had
developed for himself, for it had not been of much use to him in
the conjuncture he had passed through; and he wondered whether
thought really helped a man in any of the critical affairs of
life: it seemed to him rather that he was swayed by some power
alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like that great
wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He
thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to
act, he was powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he
knew not what. He acted as though he were a machine driven by
the two forces of his environment and his personality; his
reason was someone looking on, observing the facts but powerless
to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who saw the
doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to
alter one smallest particle of what occurred.


CHAPTER LXXIX

PHILIP went up to London a couple of days before the session
began in order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the
streets that led out of the Westminster Bridge Road, but their
dinginess was distasteful to him; and at last he found one in
Kennington which had a quiet and old-world air. It reminded one
a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that side of the
river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great
barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family
to the West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf.
The houses in the street which Philip fixed upon were
two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state
that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one which announced
that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere,
silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a
kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week.
Philip did not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he
wished to settle down at once. He asked the landlady if she
could keep the place clean for him and cook his breakfast, but
she replied that she had enough work to do without that; and he
was pleased rather than otherwise because she intimated that she
wished to have nothing more to do with him than to receive his
rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer's round
the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a
woman who would `do' for him.

Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went
along, an arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a
few drawings, and the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given
him. His uncle had offered a fold-up bed for which, now that he
no longer let his house in August, he had no further use; and by
spending another ten pounds Philip bought himself whatever else
was essential. He spent ten shillings on putting a corn-coloured
paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on the
walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands
Augustins, and the photograph of the _Odalisque_ by Ingres and
Manet's _Olympia_ which in Paris had been the objects of his
contemplation while he shaved. To remind himself that he too had
once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal
drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel Ajuria: it was the best
thing he had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his
feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face
that air of determination which had been so impressive; and
though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects
of his work its associations made him look upon it with
tolerance. He wondered what had happened to Miguel. There is
nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no
talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he
had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair
had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his
Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own
accord, and now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his
fervent rhetoric to politics and bull-fighting.

Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms,
and they came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a
_pate de foie gras_; and he was delighted when they praised his
taste. He would have invited the Scotch stockbroker too, but he
had only three chairs, and thus could entertain only a definite
number of guests. Lawson was aware that through him Philip had
become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked that he
had run across her a few days before.

"She was asking how you were."

Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get
himself out of the awkward habit of reddening when he was
embarrassed), and Lawson looked at him quizzically. Lawson, who
now spent most of the year in London, had so far surrendered to
his environment as to wear his hair short and to dress himself
in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.

"I gather that all is over between you," he said.

"I've not seen her for months."

"She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with
a lot of white ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty
well."

Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her,
and after an interval, when the three of them were talking of
something else, he asked suddenly:

"Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?"

"Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you."

"I've got half a mind to go and see her."

"She won't eat you."

Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his
first thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she
would never have treated him so. His impulse was to go to her;
he could depend on her pity; but he was ashamed: she had been
good to him always, and he had treated her abominably.

"If I'd only had the sense to stick to her!" he said to himself,
afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking
a last pipe before going to bed.

He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the
cosy sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries
and to the play, and the charming evenings of intimate
conversation. He recollected her solicitude for his welfare and
her interest in all that concerned him. She had loved him with
a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than sensuality
in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was
a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the
gods. He made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She
must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness
of heart to forgive him: she was incapable of malice. Should he
write to her? No. He would break in on her suddenly and cast
himself at her feet--he knew that when the time came he would
feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was
how he liked to think of it--and tell her that if she would take
him back she might rely on him for ever. He was cured of the
hateful disuse from which he had suffered, he knew her worth,
and now she might trust him. His imagination leaped forward to
the future. He pictured himself rowing with her on the river on
Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never forgotten
that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the
Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his
recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit
in the Park together and talk: he laughed to himself as he
remembered her gay chatter, which poured out like a brook
bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of
character. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind
like a bad dream.

But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was
pretty certain to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his
courage suddenly failed him. Was it possible for her to forgive
him? It would be abominable of him to force himself on her
presence. The door was opened by a maid new since he had been in
the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs. Nesbit
was in.

"Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?" he said. "I'll
wait here."
    The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.

"Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front."

"I know," said Philip, with a slight smile.

He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.

"Come in," said the well-known, cheerful voice.

It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness.
When he entered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook
hands with him as if they had parted the day before. A man stood
up.

"Mr. Carey--Mr. Kingsford."

Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down
and took stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention
his name, but he seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though
he were very much at home. He was a man of forty, clean-shaven,
with long fair hair very neatly plastered down, and the reddish
skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men get when their youth is
passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the bones of his
face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of
more than average height, and broad-shouldered.

"I was wondering what had become of you," said Norah, in her
sprightly manner. "I met Mr. Lawson the other day--did he tell
you?--and I informed him that it was really high time you came
to see me again."

Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance,
and he admired the use with which she carried off an encounter
of which himself felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea.
She was about to put sugar in it when he stopped her.

"How stupid of me!" she cried. "I forgot."

He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he
never took sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign
that her nonchalance was affected.

The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and
presently he began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took
no particular notice of him. He talked fluently and well, not
without humour, but with a slightly dogmatic manner: he was a
journalist, it appeared, and had something amusing to say on
every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated Philip to
find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to
stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah. In the
old days they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt
with her and had laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring
back the conversation to matters which only he and Norah knew
about, but each time the journalist broke in and succeeded in
drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip was forced to be
silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must see he
was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this
upon him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his
good humour. At last, however, the clock struck six, and
Kingsford got up.

"I must go," he said.

Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing.
She shut the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of
minutes. Philip wondered what they were talking about.

"Who is Mr. Kingsford?" he asked cheerfully, when she returned.

"Oh, he's the editor of one of Harmsworth's Magazines. He's been
taking a good deal of my work lately."

"I thought he was never going."

"I'm glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you." She
curled herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way
her small size made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled
when he saw her assume the attitude which had always amused him.

"You look just like a cat."

She gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes.

"I really ought to break myself of the habit. It's absurd to
behave like a child when you're my age, but I'm comfortable with
my legs under me."

"It's awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again," said
Philip happily. "You don't know how I've missed it."

"Why on earth didn't you come before?" she asked gaily.

"I was afraid to," he said, reddening.

She gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a
charming smile.

"You needn't have been."

He hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly.

"D'you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully
badly--I'm dreadfully ashamed of myself."

She looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing
his head; he seemed to have come on an errand of which he was
only now realising the outrageousness. She did not help him, and
he could only blurt out bluntly.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

Then impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that
his unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself.
He told her of all that had happened between them, of the birth
of the child, and of the meeting with Griffiths, of his folly
and his trust and his immense deception. He told her how often
he had thought of her kindness and of her love, and how bitterly
he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been happy when
he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His
voice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so ashamed of
what he was saying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the
ground. His face was distorted with pain, and yet he felt it a
strange relief to speak. At last he finished. He flung himself
back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. He had concealed
nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to make
himself more despicable than he had really been. He was
surprised that she did not speak, and at last he raised his
eyes. She was not looking at him. Her face was quite white, and
she seemed to be lost in thought.

"Haven't you got anything to say to me?"

She started and reddened.

"I'm afraid you've had a rotten time," she said. "I'm dreadfully
sorry."

She seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited.
At length she seemed to force herself to speak.

"I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Kingsford."

"Why didn't you tell me at once?" he cried. "You needn't have
allowed me to humiliate myself before you."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't stop you.... I met him soon after
you"--she seemed to search for an expression that should not
wound him--"told me your friend had come back. I was very
wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind to me. He knew someone
had made me suffer, of course he doesn't know it was you, and I
don't know what I should have done without him. And suddenly I
felt I couldn't go on working, working, working; I was so tired,
I felt so ill. I told him about my husband. He offered to give
me the money to get my divorce if I would marry him as soon as
I could. He had a very good job, and it wouldn't be necessary
for me to do anything unless I wanted to. He was so fond of me
and so anxious to take care of me. I was awfully touched. And
now I'm very, very fond of him."

"Have you got your divorce then?" asked Philip.

"I've got the decree nisi. It'll be made absolute in July, and
then we are going to be married at once."

For some time Philip did not say anything.

"I wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself," he muttered at
length.

He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked
at him curiously.

"You were never really in love with me," she said.

"It's not very pleasant being in love."

But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting
up now and holding out his hand, he said:

"I hope you'll be very happy. After all, it's the best thing
that could have happened to you."

She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and
held it.

"You'll come and see me again, won't you?" she asked.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It would make me too envious
to see you happy."

He walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right
when she said he had never loved her. He was disappointed,
irritated even, but his vanity was more affected than his heart.
He knew that himself. And presently he grew conscious that the
gods had played a very good practical joke on him, and he
laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very comfortable to
have the gift of being amused at one's own absurdity.


CHAPTER LXXX

FOR the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were
new to him. The unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical
School nearly two years before had thinned out: some had left
the hospital, finding the examinations more difficult to pass
than they expected, some had been taken away by parents who had
not foreseen the expense of life in London, and some had drifted
away to other callings. One youth whom Philip knew had devised
an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales
and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn
goods bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at
the hospital when someone pointed out his name in police-court
proceedings. There had been a remand, then assurances on the
part of a harassed father, and the young man had gone out to
bear the White Man's Burden overseas. The imagination of
another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all, fell
to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his
time among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was
become a book-maker's clerk. Philip had seen him once in a bar
near Piccadilly Circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat
with a broad, flat brim. A third, with a gift for singing and
mimicry, who had achieved success at the smoking concerts of the
Medical School by his imitation of notorious comedians, had
abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy. Still
another, and he interested Philip because his uncouth manner and
interjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any
deep emotion, had felt himself stifle among the houses of
London. He grew haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew
not he possessed struggled like a sparrow held in the hand, with
little frightened gasps and a quick palpitation of the heart: he
yearned for the broad skies and the open, desolate places among
which his childhood had been spent; and he walked off one day,
without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another; and
the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up
medicine and was working on a farm.

Philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. On
certain mornings in the week he practised bandaging on
out-patients glad to earn a little money, and he was taught
auscultation and how to use the stethoscope. He learned
dispensing. He was taking the examination in _Materia Medica_
in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs,
concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. He
seized avidly upon anything from which he could extract a
suggestion of human interest.

He saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain
of cutting him dead, avoided him. Philip had felt a certain
self-consciousness with Griffiths' friends, some of whom were
now friends of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel
with Griffiths and surmised they were aware of the reason. One
of them, a very tall fellow, with a small head and a languid
air, a youth called Ramsden, who was one of Griffiths' most
faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his manner of
talking and his gestures, told Philip that Griffiths was very
much hurt because Philip had not answered his letter. He wanted
to be reconciled with him.

"Has he asked you to give me the message?" asked Philip.

"Oh, no. I'm saying this entirely on my own," said Ramsden.
"He's awfully sorry for what he did, and he says you always
behaved like a perfect brick to him. I know he'd be glad to make
it up. He doesn't come to the hospital because he's afraid of
meeting you, and he thinks you'd cut him."

"I should."

"It makes him feel rather wretched, you know."

"I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good
deal of fortitude," said Philip.

"He'll do anything he can to make it up."

"How childish and hysterical! Why should he care? I'm a very
insignificant person, and he can do very well without my
company. I'm not interested in him any more."

Ramsden thought Philip hard and cold. He paused for a moment or
two, looking about him in a perplexed way.

"Harry wishes to God he'd never had anything to do with the
woman."

"Does he?" asked Philip.

He spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. No
one could have guessed how violently his heart was beating. He
waited impatiently for Ramsden to go on.

"I suppose you've quite got over it now, haven't you?"

"I?" said Philip. "Quite."

Little by little he discovered the history of Mildred's
relations with Griffiths. He listened with a smile on his lips,
feigning an equanimity which quite deceived the dull-witted boy
who talked to him. The week-end she spent with Griffiths at
Oxford inflamed rather than extinguished her sudden passion; and
when Griffiths went home, with a feeling that was unexpected in
her she determined to stay in Oxford by herself for a couple of
days, because she had been so happy in it. She felt that nothing
could induce her to go back to Philip. He revolted her.
Griffiths was taken aback at the fire he had aroused, for he had
found his two days with her in the country somewhat tedious; and
he had no desire to turn an amusing episode into a tiresome
affair. She made him promise to write to her, and, being an
honest, decent fellow, with natural politeness and a desire to
make himself pleasant to everybody, when he got home he wrote
her a long and charming letter. She answered it with reams of
passion, clumsy, for she had no gift of expression, ill-written,
and vulgar; the letter bored him, and when it was followed next
day by another, and the day after by a third, he began to think
her love no longer flattering but alarming. He did not answer;
and she bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he were ill
and had received her letters; she said his silence made her
dreadfully anxious. He was forced to write, but he sought to
make his reply as casual as was possible without being
offensive: he begged her not to wire, since it was difficult to
explain telegrams to his mother, an old-fashioned person for
whom a telegram was still an event to excite tremor. She
answered by return of post that she must see him and announced
her intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which
Philip had given her as a wedding-present and could raise eight
pounds on that) in order to come up and stay at the market town
four miles from which was the village in which his father
practised. This frightened Griffiths; and he, this time, made
use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she must do nothing
of the kind. He promised to let her know the moment he came up
to London, and, when he did, found that she had already been
asking for him at the hospital at which he had an appointment.
He did not like this, and, on seeing her, told Mildred that she
was not to come there on any pretext; and now, after an absence
of three weeks, he found that she bored him quite decidedly; he
wondered why he had ever troubled about her, and made up his
mind to break with her as soon as he could. He was a person who
dreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give pain; but at the same
time he had other things to do, and he was quite determined not
to let Mildred bother him. When he met her he was pleasant,
cheerful, amusing, affectionate; he invented convincing excuses
for the interval since last he had seen her; but he did
everything he could to avoid her. When she forced him to make
appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last moment to put
himself off; and his landlady (the first three months of his
appointment he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was
out when Mildred called. She would waylay him in the street and,
knowing she had been waiting about for him to come out of the
hospital for a couple of hours, he would give her a few
charming, friendly words and bolt off with the excuse that he
had a business engagement. He grew very skilful in slipping out
of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went back to his lodgings
at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and
suspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in Ramsden's
rooms; next day the landlady told him that Mildred had sat
crying on the doorsteps for hours, and she had been obliged to
tell her at last that if she did not go away she would send for
a policeman.

"I tell you, my boy," said Ramsden, "you're jolly well out of
it. Harry says that if he'd suspected for half a second she was
going to make such a blooming nuisance of herself he'd have seen
himself damned before he had anything to do with her."

Philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long
hours of the night. He saw her face as she looked up dully at
the landlady who sent her away.

"I wonder what she's doing now."

"Oh, she's got a job somewhere, thank God. That keeps her busy
all day."

The last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer
session, was that Griffiths, urbanity had given way at length
under the exasperation of the constant persecution. He had told
Mildred that he was sick of being pestered, and she had better
take herself off and not bother him again.

"It was the only thing he could do," said Ramsden. "It was
getting a bit too thick."

"Is it all over then?" asked Philip.

"Oh, he hasn't seen her for ten days. You know, Harry's
wonderful at dropping people. This is about the toughest nut
he's ever had to crack, but he's cracked it all right."

Then Philip heard nothing more of her at all. She vanished into
the vast anonymous mass of the population of London.


CHAPTER LXXXI

AT The beginning of the winter session Philip became an
out-patients' clerk. There were three assistant-physicians who
took out-patients, two days a week each, and Philip put his name
down for Dr. Tyrell. He was popular with the students, and there
was some competition to be his clerk. Dr. Tyrell was a tall,
thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head, red hair cut
short, and prominent blue eyes: his face was bright scarlet. He
talked well in a pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and
treated the world lightly. He was a successful man, with a large
consulting practice and a knighthood in prospect. From commerce
with students and poor people he had the patronising air, and
from dealing always with the sick he had the healthy man's
jovial condescension, which some consultants achieve as the
professional manner. He made the patient feel like a boy
confronted by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd
piece of naughtiness which amused rather than irritated.

The student was supposed to attend in the out-patients' room
every day, see cases, and pick up what information he could; but
on the days on which he clerked his duties were a little more
definite. At that time the out-patients' department at St.
Luke's consisted of three rooms, leading into one another, and
a large, dark waiting-room with massive pillars of masonry and
long benches. Here the patients waited after having been given
their `letters' at mid-day; and the long rows of them, bottles
and gallipots in hand, some tattered and dirty, others decent
enough, sitting in the dimness, men and women of all ages,
children, gave one an impression which was weird and horrible.
They suggested the grim drawings of Daumier. All the rooms were
painted alike, in salmon-colour with a high dado of maroon; and
there was in them an odour of disinfectants, mingling as the
afternoon wore on with the crude stench of humanity. The first
room was the largest and in the middle of it were a table and an
office chair for the physician; on each side of this were two
smaller tables, a little lower: at one of these sat the
house-physician and at the other the clerk who took the `book'
for the day. This was a large volume in which were written down
the name, age, sex, profession, of the patient and the diagnosis
of his disuse.

At half past one the house-physician came in, rang the bell, and
told the porter to send in the old patients. There were always
a good many of these, and it was necessary to get through as
many of them as possible before Dr. Tyrell came at two. The H.P.
with whom Philip came in contact was a dapper little man,
excessively conscious of his importance: he treated the clerks
with condescension and patently resented the familiarity of
older students who had been his contemporaries and did not use
him with the respect he felt his present position demanded. He
set about the cases. A clerk helped him. The patients streamed
in. The men came first. Chronic bronchitis, "a nasty 'acking
cough," was what they chiefly suffered from; one went to the
H.P. and the other to the clerk, handing in their letters: if
they were going on well the words _Rep 14_ were written on
them, and they went to the dispensary with their bottles or
gallipots in order to have medicine given them for fourteen days
more. Some old stagers held back so that they might be seen by
the physician himself, but they seldom succeeded in this; and
only three or four, whose condition seemed to demand his
attention, were kept.

Dr. Tyrell came in with quick movements and a breezy manner. He
reminded one slightly of a clown leaping into the arena of a
circus with the cry: Here we are again. His air seemed to
indicate: What's all this nonsense about being ill? I'll soon
put that right. He took his seat, asked if there were any old
patients for him to see, rapidly passed them in review, looking
at them with shrewd eyes as he discussed their symptoms, cracked
a joke (at which all the clerks laughed heartily) with the H.P.,
who laughed heartily too but with an air as if he thought it was
rather impudent for the clerks to laugh, remarked that it was a
fine day or a hot one, and rang the bell for the porter to show
in the new patients.

They came in one by one and walked up to the table at which sat
Dr. Tyrell. They were old men and young men and middle-aged men,
mostly of the labouring class, dock labourers, draymen, factory
hands, barmen; but some, neatly dressed, were of a station which
was obviously superior, shop-assistants, clerks, and the like.
Dr. Tyrell looked at these with suspicion. Sometimes they put on
shabby clothes in order to pretend they were poor; but he had a
keen eye to prevent what he regarded as fraud and sometimes
refused to see people who, he thought, could well pay for
medical attendance. Women were the worst offenders and they
managed the thing more clumsily. They would wear a cloak and a
skirt which were almost in rags, and neglect to take the rings
off their fingers.

"If you can afford to wear jewellery you can afford a doctor. A
hospital is a charitable institution," said Dr. Tyrell.

He handed back the letter and called for the next case.

"But I've got my letter."

"I don't care a hang about your letter; you get out. You've got
no business to come and steal the time which is wanted by the
really poor."

The patient retired sulkily, with an angry scowl.

"She'll probably write a letter to the papers on the gross
mismanagement of the London hospitals," said Dr. Tyrell, with a
smile, as he took the next paper and gave the patient one of his
shrewd glances.

Most of them were under the impression that the hospital was an
institution of the state, for which they paid out of the rates,
and took the attendance they received as a right they could
claim. They imagined the physician who gave them his time was
heavily paid.

Dr. Tyrell gave each of his clerks a case to examine. The clerk
took the patient into one of the inner rooms; they were smaller,
and each had a couch in it covered with black horse-hair: he
asked his patient a variety of questions, examined his lungs,
his heart, and his liver, made notes of fact on the hospital
letter, formed in his own mind some idea of the diagnosis, and
then waited for Dr. Tyrell to come in. This he did, followed by
a small crowd of students, when he had finished the men, and the
clerk read out what he had learned. The physician asked him one
or two questions, and examined the patient himself. If there was
anything interesting to hear students applied their stethoscope:
you would see a man with two or three to the chest, and two
perhaps to his back, while others waited impatiently to listen.
The patient stood among them a little embarrassed, but not
altogether displeased to find himself the centre of attention:
he listened confusedly while Dr. Tyrell discoursed glibly on the
case. Two or three students listened again to recognise the
murmur or the crepitation which the physician described, and
then the man was told to put on his clothes.

When the various cases had been examined Dr. Tyrell went back
into the large room and sat down again at his desk. He asked any
student who happened to be standing near him what he would
prescribe for a patient he had just seen. The student mentioned
one or two drugs.

"Would you?" said Dr. Tyrell. "Well, that's original at all
events. I don't think we'll be rash."

This always made the students laugh, and with a twinkle of
amusement at his own bright humour the physician prescribed some
other drug than that which the student had suggested. When there
were two cases of exactly the same sort and the student proposed
the treatment which the physician had ordered for the first, Dr.
Tyrell exercised considerable ingenuity in thinking of something
else. Sometimes, knowing that in the dispensary they were worked
off their legs and preferred to give the medicines which they
had all ready, the good hospital mixtures which had been found
by the experience of years to answer their purpose so well, he
amused himself by writing an elaborate prescription.

"We'll give the dispenser something to do. If we go on
prescribing _mist: alb:_ he'll lose his cunning."

The students laughed, and the doctor gave them a circular glance
of enjoyment in his joke. Then he touched the bell and, when the
porter poked his head in, said:

"Old women, please."

He leaned back in his chair, chatting with the H.P. while the
porter herded along the old patients. They came in, strings of
anaemic girls, with large fringes and pallid lips, who could not
digest their bad, insufficient food; old ladies, fat and thin,
aged prematurely by frequent confinements, with winter coughs;
women with this, that, and the other, the matter with them. Dr.
Tyrell and his house-physician got through them quickly. Time
was getting on, and the air in the small room was growing more
sickly. The physician looked at his watch.

"Are there many new women today?" he asked.

"A good few, I think," said the H.P.

"We'd better have them in. You can go on with the old ones."

They entered. With the men the most common ailments were due to
the excessive use of alcohol, but with the women they were due
to defective nourishment. By about six o'clock they were
finished. Philip, exhausted by standing all the time, by the bad
air, and by the attention he had given, strolled over with his
fellow-clerks to the Medical School to have tea. He found the
work of absorbing interest. There was humanity there in the
rough, the materials the artist worked on; and Philip felt a
curious thrill when it occurred to him that he was in the
position of the artist and the patients were like clay in his
hands. He remembered with an amused shrug of the shoulders his
life in Paris, absorbed in colour, tone, values, Heaven knows
what, with the aim of producing beautiful things: the directness
of contact with men and women gave a thrill of power which he
had never known. He found an endless excitement in looking at
their faces and hearing them speak; they came in each with his
peculiarity, some shuffling uncouthly, some with a little trip,
others with heavy, slow tread, some shyly. Often you could guess
their trades by the look of them. You learnt in what way to put
your questions so that they should be understood, you discovered
on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what inquiries you
could extort the truth notwithstanding. You saw the different
way people took the same things. The diagnosis of dangerous
illness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by
another with dumb despair. Philip found that he was less shy
with these people than he had ever been with others; he felt not
exactly sympathy, for sympathy suggests condescension; but he
felt at home with them. He found that he was able to put them at
their ease, and, when he had been given a case to find out what
he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient delivered
himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence.

"Perhaps," he thought to himself, with a smile, "perhaps I'm cut
out to be a doctor. It would be rather a lark if I'd hit upon
the one thing I'm fit for."

It seemed to Philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic
interest of those afternoons. To the others men and women were
only cases, good if they were complicated, tiresome if obvious;
they heard murmurs and were astonished at abnormal livers; an
unexpected sound in the lungs gave them something to talk about.
But to Philip there was much more. He found an interest in just
looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their hands, in
the look of their eyes and the length of their noses. You saw in
that room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of
custom was torn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw.
Sometimes you saw an untaught stoicism which was profoundly
moving. Once Philip saw a man, rough and illiterate, told his
case was hopeless; and, self-controlled himself, he wondered at
the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to keep a stiff
upper-lip before strangers. But was it possible for him to be
brave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or
would he then surrender to despair? Sometimes there was tragedy.
Once a young woman brought her sister to be examined, a girl of
eighteen, with delicate features and large blue eyes, fair hair
that sparkled with gold when a ray of autumn sunshine touched it
for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty. The students' eyes
went to her with little smiles. They did not often see a pretty
girl in these dingy rooms. The elder woman gave the family
history, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and
a sister, these two were the only ones left. The girl had been
coughing lately and losing weight. She took off her blouse and
the skin of her neck was like milk. Dr. Tyrell examined her
quietly, with his usual rapid method; he told two or three of
his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he indicated
with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress. The sister
was standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice,
so that the girl should not hear. Her voice trembled with fear.

"She hasn't got it, doctor, has she?"

"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it."

"She was the last one. When she goes I shan't have anybody."

She began to cry, while the doctor looked at her gravely; he
thought she too had the type; she would not make old bones
either. The girl turned round and saw her sister's tears. She
understood what they meant. The colour fled from her lovely face
and tears fell down her cheeks. The two stood for a minute or
two, crying silently, and then the older, forgetting the
indifferent crowd that watched them, went up to her, took her in
her arms, and rocked her gently to and fro as if she were a
baby.

When they were gone a student asked:

"How long d'you think she'll last, sir?"

Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders.

"Her brother and sister died within three months of the first
symptoms. She'll do the same. If they were rich one might do
something. You can't tell these people to go to St. Moritz.
Nothing can be done for them."

Once a man who was strong and in all the power of his manhood
came because a persistent aching troubled him and his
club-doctor did not seem to do him any good; and the verdict for
him too was death, not the inevitable death that horrified and
yet was tolerable because science was helpless before it, but
the death which was inevitable because the man was a little
wheel in the great machine of a complex civilisation, and had as
little power of changing the circumstances as an automaton.
Complete rest was his only chance. The physician did not ask
impossibilities.

"You ought to get some very much lighter job."

"There ain't no light jobs in my business."

"Well, if you go on like this you'll kill yourself. You're very
ill."

"D'you mean to say I'm going to die?"

"I shouldn't like to say that, but you're certainly unfit for
hard work."

"If I don't work who's to keep the wife and the kids?"

Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders. The dilemma had been
presented to him a hundred times. Time was pressing and there
were many patients to be seen.

"Well, I'll give you some medicine and you can come back in a
week and tell me how you're getting on."

The man took his letter with the useless prescription written
upon it and walked out. The doctor might say what he liked. He
did not feel so bad that he could not go on working. He had a
good job and he could not afford to throw it away.

"I give him a year," said Dr. Tyrell.

Sometimes there was comedy. Now and then came a flash of cockney
humour, now and then some old lady, a character such as Charles
Dickens might have drawn, would amuse them by her garrulous
oddities. Once a woman came who was a member of the ballet at a
famous music-hall. She looked fifty, but gave her age as
twenty-eight. She was outrageously painted and ogled the
students impudently with large black eyes; her smiles were
grossly alluring. She had abundant self-confidence and treated
Dr. Tyrell, vastly amused, with the easy familiarity with which
she might have used an intoxicated admirer. She had chronic
bronchitis, and told him it hindered her in the exercise of her
profession.

"I don't know why I should 'ave such a thing, upon my word I
don't. I've never 'ad a day's illness in my life. You've only
got to look at me to know that."

She rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long sweep of
her painted eyelashes, and flashed her yellow teeth at them. She
spoke with a cockney accent, but with an affectation of
refinement which made every word a feast of fun.

"It's what they call a winter cough," answered Dr. Tyrell
gravely. "A great many middle-aged women have it."

"Well, I never! That is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one
ever called me middle-aged before."

She opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side,
looking at him with indescribable archness.

"That is the disadvantage of our profession," said he. "It
forces us sometimes to be ungallant."

She took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile.

"You will come and see me dance, dearie, won't you?"

"I will indeed."

He rang the bell for the next case.

"I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me."

But on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of
comedy. There was no describing it. It was manifold and various;
there were tears and laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious
and interesting and indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was
tumultuous and passionate; it was grave; it was sad and comic;
it was trivial; it was simple and complex; joy was there and
despair; the love of mothers for their children, and of men for
women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with leaden feet,
punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and
wretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its
inevitable price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning
of life, filling some poor girl with terror and shame, was
diagnosed there. There was neither good nor bad there. There
were just facts. It was life.


CHAPTER LXXXII

TOWARDS the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close
his three months as clerk in the out-patients' department, he
received a letter from Lawson, who was in Paris.

_Dear Philip,

Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living
at 43 Hyde Street, Soho. I don't know where it is, but I daresay
you will be able to find out. Be a brick and look after him a
bit. He is very down on his luck. He will tell you what he is
doing. Things are going on here very much as usual. Nothing
seems to have changed since you were here. Clutton is back, but
he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled with
everybody. As far as I can make out he hasn't got a cent, he
lives in a little studio right away beyond the Jardin des
Plantes, but he won't let anybody see his work. He doesn't show
anywhere, so one doesn't know what he is doing. He may be a
genius, but on the other hand he may be off his head. By the
way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showing Mrs.
Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in
popper's business. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very
pretty and I'm trying to work a portrait. How much would you ask
if you were me? I don't want to frighten them, and then on the
other hand I don't want to be such an ass as to ask {Pounds
Sterling symbol}-->  L150 if they're quite willing to give L300.

                                             Yours ever,
                                                Frederick Lawson._


Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following
letter. It was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and
the flimsy envelope was dirtier than was justified by its
passage through the post.

_Dear Carey,

Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had
some part in rescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which
myself am hopelessly immersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am
a stranger in a strange city and I am buffeted by the
philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of Paris. I do not ask
you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a
magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of
Monsieur Purgon's Profession, but you will find me eating
modestly any evening between seven and eight at a restaurant
yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean Street.

                                         Your sincere
                                                 J. Cronshaw._


Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant,
consisting of one small room, was of the poorest class, and
Cronshaw seemed to be its only customer. He was sitting in the
corner, well away from draughts, wearing the same shabby
great-coat which Philip had never seen him without, with his old
bowler on his head.

"I eat here because I can be alone," he said. "They are not
doing well; the only people who come are a few trollops and one
or two waiters out of a job; they are giving up business, and
the food is execrable. But the ruin of their fortunes is my
advantage."

Cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. It was nearly three
years since they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change
in his appearance. He had been rather corpulent, but now he had
a dried-up, yellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and
winkled; his clothes hung about him as though they had been
bought for someone else; and his collar, three or four sizes too
large, added to the slatternliness of his appearance. His hands
trembled continually. Philip remembered the handwriting which
scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard letters.
Cronshaw was evidently very ill.

"I eat little these days," he said. "I'm very sick in the
morning. I'm just having some soup for my dinner, and then I
shall have a bit of cheese."

Philip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and
Cronshaw, seeing it, gave him the quizzical look with which he
reproved the admonitions of common sense.

"You have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me
to drink absinthe."

"You've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver," said Philip.

"Evidently."

He looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power
of making him feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out
that what he was thinking was distressingly obvious; and when
you have agreed with the obvious what more is there to say?
Philip changed the topic.

"When are you going back to Paris?"

"I'm not going back to Paris. I'm going to die."

The very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He
thought of half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile.
He knew that Cronshaw was a dying man.

"Are you going to settle in London then?" he asked lamely.

"What is London to me? I am a fish out of water. I walk through
the crowded streets, men jostle me, and I seem to walk in a dead
city. I felt that I couldn't die in Paris. I wanted to die among
my own people. I don't know what hidden instinct drew me back at
the last."

Philip knew of the woman Cronshaw had lived with and the two
draggle-tailed children, but Cronshaw had never mentioned them
to him, and he did not like to speak of them. He wondered what
had happened to them.

"I don't know why you talk of dying," he said.

"I had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then
it was a miracle that I came through. It appears I'm extremely
liable to it, and another bout will kill me."

"Oh, what nonsense! You're not so bad as all that. You've only
got to take precautions. Why don't you give up drinking?"

"Because I don't choose. It doesn't matter what a man does if
he's ready to take the consequences. Well, I'm ready to take the
consequences. You talk glibly of giving up drinking, but it's
the only thing I've got left now. What do you think life would
be to me without it? Can you understand the happiness I get out
of my absinthe? I yearn for it; and when I drink it I savour
every drop, and afterwards I feel my soul swimming in ineffable
happiness. It disgusts you. You are a puritan and in your heart
you despise sensual pleasures. Sensual pleasures are the most
violent and the most exquisite. I am a man blessed with vivid
senses, and I have indulged them with all my soul. I have to pay
the penalty now, and I am ready to pay."

Philip looked at him for a while steadily.

"Aren't you afraid?"

For a moment Cronshaw did not answer. He seemed to consider his
reply.

"Sometimes, when I'm alone." He looked at Philip. "You think
that's a condemnation? You're wrong. I'm not afraid of my fear.
It's folly, the Christian argument that you should live always
in view of your death. The only way to live is to forget that
you're going to die. Death is unimportant. The fear of it should
never influence a single action of the wise man. I know that I
shall die struggling for breath, and I know that I shall be
horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myself
from regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a
pass; but I disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased,
poor, dying, hold still my soul in my hands, and I regret
nothing."

"D'you remember that Persian carpet you gave me?" asked Philip.

Cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days.

"I told you that it would give you an answer to your question
when you asked me what was the meaning of life. Well, have you
discovered the answer?"

"No," smiled Philip. "Won't you tell it me?"

"No, no, I can't do that. The answer is meaningless unless you
discover it for yourself."


CHAPTER LXXXIII

CRONSHAW was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging
him to do this for years, but his laziness made it impossible
for him to take the necessary steps. He had always answered
their exhortations by telling them that the love of poetry was
dead in England. You brought out a book which had cost you years
of thought and labour; it was given two or three contemptuous
lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty copies
were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had long
since worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion like
all else. But one of his friends had taken the matter into his
own hands. This was a man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom
Philip had met once or twice with Cronshaw in the cafes of the
Quarter. He had a considerable reputation in England as a critic
and was the accredited exponent in this country of modern French
literature. He had lived a good deal in France among the men who
made the _Mercure de France_ the liveliest review of the day,
and by the simple process of expressing in English their point
of view he had acquired in England a reputation for originality.
Philip had read some of his articles. He had formed a style for
himself by a close imitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used
elaborate sentences, carefully balanced, and obsolete,
resplendent words: it gave his writing an appearance of
individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give him
all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume
of reasonable size. He promised to use his influence with
publishers. Cronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he
had found it more difficult than ever to work steadily; he made
barely enough to keep himself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote
to him that this publisher and the other, though admiring the
poems, thought it not worth while to publish them, Cronshaw
began to grow interested. He wrote impressing upon Upjohn his
great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now
that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a
published book, and at the back of his mind was the feeling that
he had produced great poetry. He expected to burst upon the
world like a new star. There was something fine in keeping to
himself these treasures of beauty all his life and giving them
to the world disdainfully when, he and the world parting
company, he had no further use for them.

His decision to come to England was caused directly by an
announcement from Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented
to print the poems. By a miracle of persuasion Upjohn had
persuaded him to give ten pounds in advance of royalties.

"In advance of royalties, mind you," said Cronshaw to Philip.
"Milton only got ten pounds down."

Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he
would ask his friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw
pretended to treat the matter with detachment, but it was easy
to see that he was delighted with the thought of the stir he
would make.

One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched
eating-house at which Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but
Cronshaw did not appear. Philip learned that he had not been
there for three days. He got himself something to eat and went
round to the address from which Cronshaw had first written to
him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It was a
street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had
been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French
newspaper; the doors had not been painted for years; there were
shabby little shops on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers,
stationers. Ragged children played in the road, and an old
barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar tune. Philip knocked at
the door of Cronshaw's house (there was a shop of cheap
sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly
Frenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was
in.

"Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the
back. I don't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go
up and see."

The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting
odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out
of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but
made no remark. There were three doors on the top landing.
Philip knocked at one, and knocked again; there was no reply; he
tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked at another
door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It opened. The
room was dark.

"Who's that?"

He recognised Cronshaw's voice.

"Carey. Can I come in?"

He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and
the stink was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light
from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a small
room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a washing-stand
and one chair, but they left little space for anyone to move in.
Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. He made no movement,
but gave a low chuckle.

"Why don't you light the candle?" he said then.

Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a
candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on
the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he
looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was
disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.

"I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look
after you here?"

"George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he
goes to his work."

"Who's George?"

"I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this
palatial apartment with me."

Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since
it was slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.

"You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody