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."

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