Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her
some `drops’ which she was herself in the habit
of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and immediately
after tea announced that she would go to her room and
lie down.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you’ll
want?” asked Mrs. Carey anxiously.
“Quite sure, thank you.”
“Because, if there isn’t, I think I’ll
go to church. I don’t often have the chance
of going in the evening.”
“Oh yes, do go.”
“I shall be in,” said Philip. “If
Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can always call
me.”
“You’d better leave the drawing-room door
open, Philip, so that if Miss Wilkinson rings, you’ll
hear.”
“Certainly,” said Philip.
So after six o’clock Philip was left alone in
the house with Miss Wilkinson. He felt sick with
apprehension. He wished with all his heart that
he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late
now; he must take the opportunity which he had made.
What would Miss Wilkinson think of him if he did not!
He went into the hall and listened. There was
not a sound. He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really
had a headache. Perhaps she had forgotten his
suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He
crept up the stairs as softly as he could, and he
stopped with a start when they creaked. He stood
outside Miss Wilkinson’s room and listened; he
put his hand on the knob of the door-handle.
He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for
at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind;
and his hand trembled. He would willingly have
bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he
knew would seize him. It was like getting on the
highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked
nothing from below, but when you got up there and
stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only
thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming
down meekly by the steps you had climbed up.
Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle
softly and walked in. He seemed to himself to
be trembling like a leaf.
Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table
with her back to the door, and she turned round quickly
when she heard it open.
“Oh, it’s you. What d’you want?”
She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing
in her petticoat. It was short and only came
down to the top of her boots; the upper part of it
was black, of some shiny material, and there was a
red flounce. She wore a camisole of white calico
with short arms. She looked grotesque. Philip’s
heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed
so unattractive; but it was too late now. He
closed the door behind him and locked it.
