But the want of these things excused her. He
felt that if he had not realised this he could never
forgive her for the pain she caused him.
“He’s got seats for the Tivoli,”
she said. “He gave me my choice and I chose
that. And we’re going to dine at the Cafe
Royal. He says it’s the most expensive
place in London.”
“He’s a gentleman in every sense of the
word,” thought Philip, but he clenched his teeth
to prevent himself from uttering a syllable.
Philip went to the Tivoli and saw Mildred with her
companion, a smooth-faced young man with sleek hair
and the spruce look of a commercial traveller, sitting
in the second row of the stalls. Mildred wore
a black picture hat with ostrich feathers in it, which
became her well. She was listening to her host
with that quiet smile which Philip knew; she had no
vivacity of expression, and it required broad farce
to excite her laughter; but Philip could see that
she was interested and amused. He thought to
himself bitterly that her companion, flashy and jovial,
exactly suited her. Her sluggish temperament
made her appreciate noisy people. Philip had
a passion for discussion, but no talent for small-talk.
He admired the easy drollery of which some of his
friends were masters, Lawson for instance, and his
sense of inferiority made him shy and awkward.
The things which interested him bored Mildred.
She expected men to talk about football and racing,
and he knew nothing of either. He did not know
the catchwords which only need be said to excite a
laugh.
Printed matter had always been a fetish to Philip,
and now, in order to make himself more interesting,
he read industriously The Sporting Times.
Philip did not surrender himself willingly to the
passion that consumed him. He knew that all things
human are transitory and therefore that it must cease
one day or another. He looked forward to that
day with eager longing. Love was like a parasite
in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his
life’s blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely
that he could take pleasure in nothing else.
He had been used to delight in the grace of St. James’
Park, and often he sat and looked at the branches of
a tree silhouetted against the sky, it was like a Japanese
print; and he found a continual magic in the beautiful
Thames with its barges and its wharfs; the changing
sky of London had filled his soul with pleasant fancies.
But now beauty meant nothing to him. He was bored
and restless when he was not with Mildred. Sometimes
he thought he would console his sorrow by looking
at pictures, but he walked through the National Gallery
like a sight-seer; and no picture called up in him
a thrill of emotion. He wondered if he could
ever care again for all the things he had loved.
He had been devoted to reading, but now books were
meaningless; and he spent his spare hours in the smoking-room
of the hospital club, turning over innumerable periodicals.
This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly
the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner
and he longed for freedom.
