After lunching in the basement of the Medical School
Philip went back to his rooms. It was Saturday
afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the stairs.
“Is Mr. Griffiths in?” he asked.
“No, sir. He went away this morning, soon
after you went out.”
“Isn’t he coming back?”
“I don’t think so, sir. He’s
taken his luggage.”
Philip wondered what this could mean. He took
a book and began to read. It was Burton’s
Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of the
Westminster Public Library; and he read the first page,
but could make no sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere;
he was listening all the time for a ring at the bell.
He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away already,
without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred
would be coming presently for the money. He set
his teeth and read on; he tried desperately to concentrate
his attention; the sentences etched themselves in
his brain by the force of his effort, but they were
distorted by the agony he was enduring. He wished
with all his heart that he had not made the horrible
proposition to give them money; but now that he had
made it he lacked the strength to go back on it, not
on Mildred’s account, but on his own. There
was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do
the thing he had determined. He discovered that
the three pages he had read had made no impression
on him at all; and he went back and started from the
beginning: he found himself reading one sentence
over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with
his thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare.
One thing he could do was to go out and keep away till
midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling
at the house every hour to ask if he was in.
He enjoyed the thought of their disappointment.
He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically.
But he could not do that. Let them come and take
the money, and he would know then to what depths of
infamy it was possible for men to descend. He
could not read any more now. He simply could
not see the words. He leaned back in his chair,
closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for
Mildred.
The landlady came in.
“Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?”
“Show her in.”
Philip pulled himself together to receive her without
any sign of what he was feeling. He had an impulse
to throw himself on his knees and seize her hands
and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way
of moving her; she would tell Griffiths what he had
said and how he acted. He was ashamed.
“Well, how about the little jaunt?” he
said gaily.
“We’re going. Harry’s outside.
I told him you didn’t want to see him, so he’s
kept out of your way. But he wants to know if
he can come in just for a minute to say good-bye to
you.”
“No, I won’t see him,” said Philip.
