“I can’t go on like this,” groaned
Philip. “it’s too degrading. If I
go now I go for good. Unless you’ll come
with me tonight you’ll never see me again.”
“You seem to think that’ll be an awful
thing for me. All I say is, good riddance to
bad rubbish.”
“Then good-bye.”
He nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with
all his heart that she would call him back. At
the next lamp-post he stopped and looked over his
shoulder. He thought she might beckon to him—he
was willing to forget everything, he was ready for
any humiliation—but she had turned away,
and apparently had ceased to trouble about him.
He realised that she was glad to be quit of him.
Philip passed the evening wretchedly. He had
told his landlady that he would not be in, so there
was nothing for him to eat, and he had to go to Gatti’s
for dinner. Afterwards he went back to his rooms,
but Griffiths on the floor above him was having a
party, and the noisy merriment made his own misery
more hard to bear. He went to a music-hall, but
it was Saturday night and there was standing-room
only: after half an hour of boredom his legs
grew tired and he went home. He tried to read,
but he could not fix his attention; and yet it was
necessary that he should work hard. His examination
in biology was in little more than a fortnight, and,
though it was easy, he had neglected his lectures
of late and was conscious that he knew nothing.
It was only a viva, however, and he felt sure that
in a fortnight he could find out enough about the
subject to scrape through. He had confidence
in his intelligence. He threw aside his book and
gave himself up to thinking deliberately of the matter
which was in his mind all the time.
He reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that
evening. Why had he given her the alternative
that she must dine with him or else never see him
again? Of course she refused. He should have
allowed for her pride. He had burnt his ships
behind him. It would not be so hard to bear if
he thought that she was suffering now, but he knew
her too well: she was perfectly indifferent to
him. If he hadn’t been a fool he would have
pretended to believe her story; he ought to have had
the strength to conceal his disappointment and the
self-control to master his temper. He could not
tell why he loved her. He had read of the idealisation
that takes place in love, but he saw her exactly as
she was. She was not amusing or clever, her mind
was common; she had a vulgar shrewdness which revolted
him, she had no gentleness nor softness. As she
would have put it herself, she was on the make.
What aroused her admiration was a clever trick played
on an unsuspecting person; to `do’ somebody always
gave her satisfaction. Philip laughed savagely
as he thought of her gentility and the refinement
with which she ate her food; she could not bear a coarse
word, so far as her limited vocabulary reached she
