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.