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.