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.
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