her at the last moment to put himself off; and his
landlady (the first three months of his appointment
he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was
out when Mildred called. She would waylay him
in the street and, knowing she had been waiting about
for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of
hours, he would give her a few charming, friendly words
and bolt off with the excuse that he had a business
engagement. He grew very skilful in slipping
out of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went
back to his lodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing
at the area railings and suspecting who it was went
to beg a shake-down in Ramsden’s rooms; next
day the landlady told him that Mildred had sat crying
on the doorsteps for hours, and she had been obliged
to tell her at last that if she did not go away she
would send for a policeman.
“I tell you, my boy,” said Ramsden, “you’re
jolly well out of it. Harry says that if he’d
suspected for half a second she was going to make such
a blooming nuisance of herself he’d have seen
himself damned before he had anything to do with her.”
Philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through
the long hours of the night. He saw her face
as she looked up dully at the landlady who sent her
away.
“I wonder what she’s doing now.”
“Oh, she’s got a job somewhere, thank
God. That keeps her busy all day.”
The last thing he heard, just before the end of the
summer session, was that Griffiths, urbanity had given
way at length under the exasperation of the constant
persecution. He had told Mildred that he was sick
of being pestered, and she had better take herself
off and not bother him again.
“It was the only thing he could do,” said
Ramsden. “It was getting a bit too thick.”
“Is it all over then?” asked Philip.
“Oh, he hasn’t seen her for ten days.
You know, Harry’s wonderful at dropping people.
This is about the toughest nut he’s ever had
to crack, but he’s cracked it all right.”
Then Philip heard nothing more of her at all.
She vanished into the vast anonymous mass of the population
of London.
At the beginning of the winter session Philip became
an out-patients’ clerk. There were three
assistant-physicians who took out-patients, two days
a week each, and Philip put his name down for Dr. Tyrell.
He was popular with the students, and there was some
competition to be his clerk. Dr. Tyrell was a
tall, thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head,
red hair cut short, and prominent blue eyes: his
face was bright scarlet. He talked well in a
pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and treated
the world lightly. He was a successful man, with
a large consulting practice and a knighthood in prospect.
From commerce with students and poor people he had
the patronising air, and from dealing always with the
sick he had the healthy man’s jovial condescension,
which some consultants achieve as the professional
manner. He made the patient feel like a boy confronted
by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd
piece of naughtiness which amused rather than irritated.
