“I’ve got the decree nisi.  It’ll be made absolute in July, and then we are going to be married at once.”

For some time Philip did not say anything.

“I wish I hadn’t made such a fool of myself,” he muttered at length.

He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession.  She looked at him curiously.

“You were never really in love with me,” she said.

“It’s not very pleasant being in love.”

But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and holding out his hand, he said: 

“I hope you’ll be very happy.  After all, it’s the best thing that could have happened to you.”

She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it.

“You’ll come and see me again, won’t you?” she asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head.  “It would make me too envious to see you happy.”

He walked slowly away from her house.  After all she was right when she said he had never loved her.  He was disappointed, irritated even, but his vanity was more affected than his heart.  He knew that himself.  And presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly.  It is not very comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one’s own absurdity.

LXXX

For the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were new to him.  The unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical School nearly two years before had thinned out:  some had left the hospital, finding the examinations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been taken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in London, and some had drifted away to other callings.  One youth whom Philip knew had devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn goods bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at the hospital when someone pointed out his name in police-court proceedings.  There had been a remand, then assurances on the part of a harassed father, and the young man had gone out to bear the White Man’s Burden overseas.  The imagination of another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all, fell to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his time among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was become a book-maker’s clerk.  Philip had seen him once in a bar near Piccadilly Circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with a broad, flat brim.  A third, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who had achieved success at the smoking concerts of the Medical School by his imitation of notorious comedians, had abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy.  Still another, and he interested Philip because his uncouth manner and interjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any deep emotion, had felt