“You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren’t you? I always thought
it funny like how you could see so much in another man’s child.”
When they had finished eating they called at the chemist’s for the
medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made
her take a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to
go back to Harrington Street. He was hideously bored.
Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had
prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results were so
apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in Philip’s skill. As
she grew better she grew less despondent. She talked more freely.
“As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right,” she said. “I’ve had
my lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for
yours truly.”
Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told
him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted
it; she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do
anything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of
that time he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much
more cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long
stories of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get
work at some eating-house; what they said and what she answered.
Nothing definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the
beginning of the following week: there was no use hurrying, and it
would be a mistake to take something unsuitable.
“It’s absurd to talk like that,” he said impatiently. “You must take
anything you can get. I can’t help you, and your money won’t last for
ever.”
“Oh, well, I’ve not come to the end of it yet and chance it.”
He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and
she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He
remembered some of the things she had said. He put two and two
together. He wondered whether she had made any attempt to find work.
Perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. It was very strange
that her money should have lasted so long.
“What is your rent here?”
“Oh, the landlady’s very nice, different from what some of them are;
she’s quite willing to wait till it’s convenient for me to pay.”
He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It
was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know
he must find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every
evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of
going back to Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of
Fitzroy Square so that he could see anyone who came along William
Street. It seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he
was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken,
when the door of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into
the darkness and watched her walk towards him. She had on the hat with
a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she
wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable to
the time of year. He followed her slowly till she came into the
Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner of
Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a
music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the arm. He saw that
she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.
“Where are you going, Mildred?”
She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did
when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so
well came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself
by abuse. But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her
tongue.
“Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting
every night by myself.”
He did not pretend to believe her.
“You mustn’t. Good heavens, I’ve told you fifty times how dangerous it
is. You must stop this sort of thing at once.”
“Oh, hold your jaw,” she cried roughly. “How d’you suppose I’m going to
live?”
He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to
drag her away.
“For God’s sake come along. Let me take you home. You don’t know what
you’re doing. It’s criminal.”
“What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven’t been so good
to me that I need bother my head about them.”
She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her
money. Philip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He
turned away and walked slowly down Oxford Street.
“I can’t do anything more,” he said to himself.
That was the end. He did not see her again.