that evening: they must kill the evening somehow;
they were too stupid, both of them to content themselves
with conversation: he got a fierce delight in
reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which
suited them so exactly to one another. He watched
the play with an abstracted mind, trying to give himself
gaiety by drinking whiskey in each interval; he was
unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but
his drunkenness was savage and morose. When the
play was over he had another drink. He could
not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded
the pictures which his vivid imagination would place
before him. He tried not to think of them.
He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was seized
with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted
to roll himself in gutters; his whole being yearned
for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.
He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely
drunk, with rage and misery clawing at his heart.
He was stopped by a painted harlot, who put her hand
on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal
words. He walked on a few steps and then stopped.
She would do as well as another. He was sorry
he had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to
her.
“I say,” he began.
“Go to hell,” she said.
Philip laughed.
“I merely wanted to ask if you’d do me
the honour of supping with me tonight.”
She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for
a while. She saw he was drunk.
“I don’t mind.”
He was amused that she should use a phrase he had
heard so often on Mildred’s lips. He took
her to one of the restaurants he had been in the habit
of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked
along that she looked down at his limb.
“I’ve got a club-foot,” he said.
“Have you any objection?”
“You are a cure,” she laughed.
When he got home his bones were aching, and in his
head there was a hammering that made him nearly scream.
He took another whiskey and soda to steady himself,
and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day.
At last Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture
was over. Looking out the trains he found that
the latest by which Griffiths could reach home that
night left Oxford soon after one, and he supposed that
Mildred would take one which started a few minutes
later to bring her to London. His desire was
to go and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like
to be left alone for a day; perhaps she would drop
him a line in the evening to say she was back, and
if not he would call at her lodgings next morning:
his spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred
for Griffiths, but for Mildred, notwithstanding all
that had passed, only a heart-rending desire.
He was glad now that Hayward was not in London on Saturday
afternoon when, distraught, he went in search of human
