At last Philip said:
“Well, I can’t say anything about other
people. I can only speak for myself. The
illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that
I can’t get away from it, but I believe it is
only an illusion. But it is an illusion which
is one of the strongest motives of my actions.
Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and
that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the
thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from
all eternity.”
“What do you deduce from that?” asked
Hayward.
“Why, merely the futility of regret. It’s
no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces
of the universe were bent on spilling it.”
One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim,
and going back to bed suddenly discovered he was ill.
All his limbs ached and he shivered with cold.
When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called
to her through the open door that he was not well,
and asked for a cup of tea and a piece of toast.
A few minutes later there was a knock at his door,
and Griffiths came in. They had lived in the
same house for over a year, but had never done more
than nod to one another in the passage.
“I say, I hear you’re seedy,” said
Griffiths. “I thought I’d come in
and see what was the matter with you.”
Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the
whole thing. He would be all right in an hour
or two.
“Well, you’d better let me take your temperature,”
said Griffiths.
“It’s quite unnecessary,” answered
Philip irritably.
“Come on.”
Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths
sat on the side of the bed and chatted brightly for
a moment, then he took it out and looked at it.
“Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed,
and I’ll bring old Deacon in to have a look
at you.”
“Nonsense,” said Philip. “There’s
nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn’t
bother about me.”
“But it isn’t any bother. You’ve
got a temperature and you must stay in bed. You
will, won’t you?”
There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling
of gravity and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.
“You’ve got a wonderful bed-side manner,”
Philip murmured, closing his eyes with a smile.
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed
down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went
into Philip’s sitting-room to look for a siphon,
could not find one, and fetched it from his own room.
He drew down the blind.
“Now, go to sleep and I’ll bring the old
man round as soon as he’s done the wards.”
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip.
His head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his
limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry.
Then there was a knock at the door and Griffiths,
healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.
