“I’m an awful fool at books,” he
said cheerfully, “but I can’t work.”
Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that
when he had got through the exuberance of his youth,
and was at last qualified, he would be a tremendous
success in practice. He would cure people by the
sheer charm of his manner.
Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped
boys who were tall and straight and high of spirits.
By the time he was well they were fast friends, and
it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that Griffiths
seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting
Philip’s time with his amusing chatter and smoking
innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him sometimes
to the tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found
him stupid, but Lawson recognised his charm and was
eager to paint him; he was a picturesque figure with
his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often
they discussed things he knew nothing about, and then
he sat quietly, with a good-natured smile on his handsome
face, feeling quite rightly that his presence was
sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the
company. When he discovered that Macalister was
a stockbroker he was eager for tips; and Macalister,
with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he could
have made if he had bought certain stock at certain
times. It made Philip’s mouth water, for
in one way and another he was spending more than he
had expected, and it would have suited him very well
to make a little money by the easy method Macalister
suggested.
“Next time I hear of a really good thing I’ll
let you know,” said the stockbroker. “They
do come along sometimes. It’s only a matter
of biding one’s time.”
Philip could not help thinking how delightful it would
be to make fifty pounds, so that he could give Norah
the furs she so badly needed for the winter.
He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked
out the articles he could buy for the money.
She deserved everything. She made his life very
happy.
One afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from
the hospital to wash and tidy himself before going
to tea as usual with Norah, as he let himself in with
his latch-key, his landlady opened the door for him.
“There’s a lady waiting to see you,”
she said.
“Me?” exclaimed Philip.
He was surprised. It would only be Norah, and
he had no idea what had brought her.
“I shouldn’t ’ave let her in, only
she’s been three times, and she seemed that
upset at not finding you, so I told her she could wait.”
He pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into
the room. His heart turned sick. It was
Mildred. She was sitting down, but got up hurriedly
as he came in. She did not move towards him nor
speak. He was so surprised that he did not know
what he was saying.
“What the hell d’you want?” he asked.
She did not answer, but began to cry. She did
not put her hands to her eyes, but kept them hanging
by the side of her body. She looked like a housemaid
applying for a situation. There was a dreadful
humility in her bearing. Philip did not know
what feelings came over him. He had a sudden
impulse to turn round and escape from the room.
