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.

LXII

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.