Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the club of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was the vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one or two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the tedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so, that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel. He had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into Philip's room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip heard him go out early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him. Suddenly there was a light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet and opened it. Mildred stood on the threshold. She did not move.
"Come in," said Philip.
He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin.
"Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night," she said.
"Oh, that's all right."
She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid, ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to reconcile himself with his master.
"I've been lunching with Harry," she said.
"If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I'll come."
A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion.
"Because of the money?" he asked.
"Partly," she answered simply. "Harry can't do anything. He owes five weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor's pressing him for money. He'd pawn anything he could, but he's pawned everything already. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on Saturday there's the book at my lodgings, and I can't get work in five minutes. It always means waiting some little time till there's a vacancy."
She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the natural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew what she told him well enough.
"You said partly," he observed at last.
"Well, Harry says you've been a brick to both of us. You've been a real good friend to him, he says, and you've done for me what p'raps no other man would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And he said what you said about him, that he's fickle by nature, he's not like you, and I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won't last and you will, he says so himself."
"D'you WANT to come away with me?" asked Philip.
"I don't mind."
He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She looked at him quickly, but did not speak.
"I've looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy..."
He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden, without warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting in the chair in which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back of it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the sagging in the middle, where the head had rested.
"I'm not lucky with women," thought Philip.
Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry with such an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart was torn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself to his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly.
"Are you awfully unhappy?" he said at last.
"I wish I was dead," she moaned. "I wish I'd died when the baby come."
Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her head more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table and looked at her.
"It is awful, love, isn't it?" he said. "Fancy anyone wanting to be in love."
Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. She had the grotesque look of one of those painters' dummies used to hang draperies on.
"I didn't know you loved him so much as all that," said Philip.
He understood Griffiths' love well enough, for he put himself in Griffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was able to think himself in Griffiths' body, and he kissed her with his lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that surprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this was passion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in his heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he felt strangely weak.
"I don't want to make you unhappy. You needn't come away with me if you don't want to. I'll give you the money all the same."
She shook her head.
"No, I said I'd come, and I'll come."
"What's the good, if you're sick with love for him?"
"Yes, that's the word. I'm sick with love. I know it won't last, just as well as he does, but just now..."
She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A strange idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think it out.
"Why don't you go away with him?"
"How can I? You know we haven't got the money."
"I'll give you the money"
She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour came into her cheeks.
"Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you'd come back to me."
Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at him with open eyes.
"Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn't think of it."
"Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him."
Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart to refuse vehemently.
"I'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday. You could easily do that. On Monday he's going home till he takes up his appointment at the North London."
"Oh, Philip, do you mean that?" she cried, clasping her hands. "If you could only let us go--I would love you so much afterwards, I'd do anything for you. I'm sure I shall get over it if you'll only do that. Would you really give us the money?"
"Yes," he said.
She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip's side, taking his hands.
"You are a brick, Philip. You're the best fellow I've ever known. Won't you be angry with me afterwards?"
He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!
"May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don't mind? He won't consent unless you promise it doesn't matter. Oh, you don't know how I love him! And afterwards I'll do anything you like. I'll come over to Paris with you or anywhere on Monday."
She got up and put on her hat.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to ask him if he'll take me."
"D'you want me to stay? I'll stay if you like."
She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.
"No, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once. There's only one thing: I can't bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. Say I have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to keep out of my way."
"All right." She sprang up and put on her gloves. "I'll let you know what he says."
"You'd better dine with me tonight."
She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to hers she threw her arms round his neck.
"You are a darling, Philip."
She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache and could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He knew that she was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but the sudden passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had come from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he felt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and confessed that in Mildred's place he would have done as Mildred did. What hurt him most was Griffiths' treachery; they had been such good friends, and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might have spared him.
He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he pleased Mildred. They suited one another.
Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them. At last she got up.
"I think I must be going off now," she said.
"I daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered.
She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.
"You haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said at last, as he held open the door.
"What is that?"
"About the money"
"How much d'you want?"
He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her suffer.
"There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's all. Harry won't come, so we shan't want money for that."
Philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door handle go. The door swung to.
"He says we couldn't, not on your money."
A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths through her.
"I don't see why not, if I'm willing," he said.
"That's what I told him."
"I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn't hesitate."
"Oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. He'd go at once if he had the money."
"If he's squeamish about it I'll give YOU the money."
"I said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it back as soon as we could."
"It's rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you away for a week-end."
"It is rather, isn't it?" she said, with a shameless little laugh. It sent a cold shudder down Philip's spine.
"What are you going to do then?" he asked.
"Nothing. He's going home tomorrow. He must."
That would be Philip's salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget this infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their dishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the torture a horrible delight.
"It looks as if it were now or never."
"That's what I told him," she said.
There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was biting his nails in his nervousness.
"Where were you thinking of going?"
"Oh, to Oxford. He was at the 'Varsity there, you know. He said he'd show me the colleges."
Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of sights.
"And it looks as if you'd have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly there just now."
"I've done all I could to persuade him."
"Why don't you have another try?"
"Shall I say you want us to go?"
"I don't think you must go as far as that," said Philip.
She paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced himself to look at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he despised her, he loved her with all his heart.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go and see if he can't arrange it. And then, if he says yes, I'll come and fetch the money tomorrow. When shall you be in?"
"I'll come back here after luncheon and wait."
"I'll give you the money for your dress and your room now."
He went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress was six guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby's keep for a week. He gave her eight pounds ten.
"Thanks very much," she said.
She left him.