Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told
the woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more.
Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window,
went down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it
consisted now of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown
paper, for she had been obliged to sell everything that was not
absolutely needful. She wore the same black silk dress she had worn the
night before, and, though she had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was
still about her eyes the black which remained after a perfunctory wash
in the morning: it made her look very ill. She was a pathetic figure as
she stepped out of the cab with the baby in her arms. She seemed a
little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one
another.
“So you’ve got here all right.”
“I’ve never lived in this part of London before.”
Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died.
Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going
back to it; and since Cronshaw’s death he had remained in the little
room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order
to make his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.
“You don’t recognise her, I expect,” said Mildred.
“I’ve not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.”
“Where shall I put her? She’s so heavy I can’t carry her very long.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,” said Philip, with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, she’ll sleep with me. She always does.”
Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She
recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings.
Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had
painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the
chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.
“In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t. I think you’re better
looking than that.”
“Things are looking up,” laughed Philip. “You’ve never told me I was
good-looking before.”
“I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks. I don’t like
good-looking men. They’re too conceited for me.”
Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a
looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her
large fringe.
“What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?” she asked
suddenly.
“Oh, there’s only a man and his wife living here. He’s out all day, and
I never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely
to themselves. I’ve not spoken two words to either of them since I
came.”
Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away.
Philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in
his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the
sleeping child. He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not
at all in love with Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had
left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical
repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give
him goose-flesh. He could not understand himself. Presently, knocking
at the door, she came in again.
“I say, you needn’t knock,” he said. “Have you made the tour of the
mansion?”
“It’s the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts,” he
retorted lightly.
“I see there’s nothing in. I’d better go out and get something.”
“Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical.”
“What shall I get for supper?”
“You’d better get what you think you can cook,” laughed Philip.
He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later
and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing
the stairs.
“I say, you are anaemic,” said Philip. “I’ll have to dose you with
Blaud’s Pills.”
“It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That’s
tasty, isn’t it? And you can’t eat much of it, so it’s more economical
than butcher’s meat.”
There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver
on, Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.
“Why are you only laying one place?” asked Philip. “Aren’t you going to
eat anything?”
Mildred flushed.
“I thought you mightn’t like me to have my meals with you.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Well, I’m only a servant, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be an ass. How can you be so silly?”
He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor
thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He
hesitated for an instant.
“Don’t think I’m conferring any benefit on you,” he said. “It’s simply
a business arrangement, I’m giving you board and lodging in return for
your work. You don’t owe me anything. And there’s nothing humiliating
to you in it.”
She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip
knew from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked
upon service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient
with her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired
and ill. He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table.
The baby was awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin’s Food for
it. The liver and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy’s
sake Philip had given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the
house a half a bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do
Mildred good. He did his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but
Mildred was subdued and exhausted. When they had finished she got up to
put the baby to bed.
“I think you’ll do well to turn in early yourself,” said Philip. “You
look absolute done up.”
“I think I will after I’ve washed up.”
Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody
moving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed
him. Mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of
plates as she washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic
it was of her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he
had work to do, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading
Osler’s Medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students’
favour of Taylor’s work, for many years the text-book most in use.
Presently Mildred came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a
casual glance, but did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt
a little nervous. He feared that Mildred might imagine he was going to
make a nuisance of himself, and he did not quite know how without
brutality to reassure her.
“By the way, I’ve got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at
a quarter past eight. Can you manage that?”
“Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the
eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning.”
“I hope you’ll find your room comfortable. You’ll be a different woman
tomorrow after a long night in bed.”
“I suppose you work till late?”
“I generally work till about eleven or half-past.”
“I’ll say good-night then.”
“Good-night.”
The table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her.
She shut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room,
and in a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in.