The following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip kept
her to himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank champagne at
dinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so long that she enjoyed
everything ingenuously. She cuddled up to Philip when they drove from
the theatre to the room he had taken for her in Pimlico.
“I really believe you’re quite glad to see me,” he said.
She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations of
affection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted.
“I’ve asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow,” he told her.
“Oh, I’m glad you’ve done that. I wanted to meet him.”
There was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday night, and
Philip was afraid she would be bored if she were alone with him all
day. Griffiths was amusing; he would help them to get through the
evening; and Philip was so fond of them both that he wanted them to
know and to like one another. He left Mildred with the words:
“Only six days more.”
They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano’s on Sunday, because
the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a good deal more
than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and had to wait some time
for Griffiths.
“He’s an unpunctual devil,” said Philip. “He’s probably making love to
one of his numerous flames.”
But presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and thin;
his head was placed well on the body, it gave him a conquering air
which was attractive; and his curly hair, his bold, friendly blue eyes,
his red mouth, were charming. Philip saw Mildred look at him with
appreciation, and he felt a curious satisfaction. Griffiths greeted
them with a smile.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you,” he said to Mildred, as he took her
hand.
“Not so much as I’ve heard about you,” she answered.
“Nor so bad,” said Philip.
“Has he been blackening my character?”
Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white and
regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.
“You ought to feel like old friends,” said Philip. “I’ve talked so much
about you to one another.”
Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed
his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed
house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of London. He was taking up
his duties at the beginning of May and meanwhile was going home for a
holiday; this was his last week in town, and he was determined to get
as much enjoyment into it as he could. He began to talk the gay
nonsense which Philip admired because he could not copy it. There was
nothing much in what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There
flowed from him a force of life which affected everyone who knew him;
it was almost as sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively
than Philip had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that his
little party was a success. She was amusing herself enormously. She
laughed louder and louder. She quite forgot the genteel reserve which
had become second nature to her.
Presently Griffiths said:
“I say, it’s dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller.
Philip never calls you anything but Mildred.”
“I daresay she won’t scratch your eyes out if you call her that too,”
laughed Philip.
“Then she must call me Harry.”
Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was
to see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a little,
kindly, because he was always so serious.
“I believe he’s quite fond of you, Philip,” smiled Mildred.
“He isn’t a bad old thing,” answered Griffiths, and taking Philip’s
hand he shook it gaily.
It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They were
all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads.
Griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused,
had to beg him to be quiet. He had a gift for story-telling, and his
adventures lost nothing of their romance and their laughter in his
narration. He played in all of them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred,
her eyes shining with excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote
after anecdote. When the lights began to be turned out she was
astonished.
“My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn’t more than
half past nine.”
They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:
“I’m coming to have tea at Philip’s room tomorrow. You might look in if
you can.”
“All right,” he smiled.
On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but Griffiths. She
was taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his
gaiety.
“I am glad you like him,” said Philip. “D’you remember you were rather
sniffy about meeting him?”
“I think it’s so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is a nice
friend for you to have.”
She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a thing she
did rarely.
“I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t be so absurd,” he laughed, touched by her appreciation so that
he felt the moisture come to his eyes.
She opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to
Philip.
“Tell Harry I’m madly in love with him,” she said.
“All right,” he laughed. “Good-night.”
Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank lazily
into an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual in the slow
movements of his large limbs. Philip remained silent, while the others
chattered away, but he was enjoying himself. He admired them both so
much that it seemed natural enough for them to admire one another. He
did not care if Griffiths absorbed Mildred’s attention, he would have
her to himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of
a loving husband, confident in his wife’s affection, who looks on with
amusement while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. But at half past
seven he looked at his watch and said:
“It’s about time we went out to dinner, Mildred.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Griffiths seemed to be considering.
“Well, I’ll be getting along,” he said at last. “I didn’t know it was
so late.”
“Are you doing anything tonight?” asked Mildred.
“No.”
There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.
“I’ll just go and have a wash,” he said, and to Mildred he added:
“Would you like to wash your hands?”
She did not answer him.
“Why don’t you come and dine with us?” she said to Griffiths.
He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.
“I dined with you last night,” he laughed. “I should be in the way.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” insisted Mildred. “Make him come, Philip. He
won’t be in the way, will he?”
“Let him come by all means if he’d like to.”
“All right, then,” said Griffiths promptly. “I’ll just go upstairs and
tidy myself.”
The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.
“Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?”
“I couldn’t help myself. It would have looked so funny to say nothing
when he said he wasn’t doing anything.”
“Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing
anything?”
Mildred’s pale lips tightened a little.
“I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being alone
with you.”
They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip went
into his bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood in an
Italian restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he quickly
realised that he was showing to disadvantage in comparison with
Griffiths, and he forced himself to hide his annoyance. He drank a good
deal of wine to destroy the pain that was gnawing at his heart, and he
set himself to talk. Mildred, as though remorseful for what she had
said, did all she could to make herself pleasant to him. She was kindly
and affectionate. Presently Philip began to think he had been a fool to
surrender to a feeling of jealousy. After dinner when they got into a
hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred, sitting between the two men,
of her own accord gave him her hand. His anger vanished. Suddenly, he
knew not how, he grew conscious that Griffiths was holding her other
hand. The pain seized him again violently, it was a real physical pain,
and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he might have asked himself
before, whether Mildred and Griffiths were in love with one another. He
could not see anything of the performance on account of the mist of
suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which seemed to be before
his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact that anything was
the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a strange desire to
torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he wanted to go and
drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had never been alone together
for a moment. He wanted to leave them by themselves.
“I’ll come too,” said Griffiths. “I’ve got rather a thirst on.”
“Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred.”
Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them together now
to make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He did not go to the
bar, but up into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be
seen. They had ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one
another’s eyes. Griffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and
Mildred seemed to hang on his lips. Philip’s head began to ache
frightfully. He stood there motionless. He knew he would be in the way
if he went back. They were enjoying themselves without him, and he was
suffering, suffering. Time passed, and now he had an extraordinary
shyness about rejoining them. He knew they had not thought of him at
all, and he reflected bitterly that he had paid for the dinner and
their seats in the music-hall. What a fool they were making of him! He
was hot with shame. He could see how happy they were without him. His
instinct was to leave them to themselves and go home, but he had not
his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless explanations. He
went back. He felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred’s eyes when she saw
him, and his heart sank.
“You’ve been a devil of a time,” said Griffiths, with a smile of
welcome.
“I met some men I knew. I’ve been talking to them, and I couldn’t get
away. I thought you’d be all right together.”
“I’ve been enjoying myself thoroughly,” said Griffiths. “I don’t know
about Mildred.”
She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar sound
in the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that they should
go.
“Come on,” said Griffiths, “we’ll both drive you home.”
Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she
might not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take her hand
nor did she offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding
Griffiths’. His chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar.
As they drove along he asked himself what plans they had made to meet
without his knowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he
had actually gone out of his way to enable them to arrange things.
“Let’s keep the cab,” said Philip, when they reached the house in which
Mildred was lodging. “I’m too tired to walk home.”
On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the
fact that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice
that something was the matter. Philip’s silence at last grew too
significant to struggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous,
ceased talking. Philip wanted to say something, but he was so shy he
could hardly bring himself to, and yet the time was passing and the
opportunity would be lost. It was best to get at the truth at once. He
forced himself to speak.
“Are you in love with Mildred?” he asked suddenly.
“I?” Griffiths laughed. “Is that what you’ve been so funny about this
evening? Of course not, my dear old man.”
He tried to slip his hand through Philip’s arm, but Philip drew himself
away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force
Griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl’s hand. He
suddenly felt very weak and broken.
“It doesn’t matter to you, Harry,” he said. “You’ve got so many
women—don’t take her away from me. It means my whole life. I’ve been so
awfully wretched.”
His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from
him. He was horribly ashamed of himself.
“My dear old boy, you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I’m far
too fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I’d known you
were going to take it like that I’d have been more careful.”
“Is that true?” asked Philip.
“I don’t care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of honour.”
Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.