platonic, and, remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant.  She took pains to reassure him.  It made no difference.  She was the sort of woman who was unable to realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not understand that they ever had other interests.  The thought struck her that Philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelny household; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like most medical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his work threw him in contact.  They were associated in his mind with a faint odour of iodoform.  Philip received no letters, and there was no girl’s photograph among his belongings.  If he was in love with someone, he was very clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred’s questions with frankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in them.

“I don’t believe he’s in love with anybody else,” she said to herself at last.

It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her; but it made his behaviour very puzzling.  If he was going to treat her like that why did he ask her to come and live at the flat?  It was unnatural.  Mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion, generosity, or kindness.  Her only conclusion was that Philip was queer.  She took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct were chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheap fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for his delicacy.  Her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings, purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of a Christmas night.  She made up her mind that when they went to Brighton she would put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyone would think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and the band.  When she found that nothing would induce Philip to share the same room with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice she had never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her.  She was astounded.  She remembered all he had said in the past and how desperately he had loved her.  She felt humiliated and angry, but she had a sort of native insolence which carried her through.  He needn’t think she was in love with him, because she wasn’t.  She hated him sometimes, and she longed to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did not know which way to handle him.  She began to be a little nervous with him.  Once or twice she cried.  Once or twice she set herself to be particularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked along the front at night he made