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.
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