Chapter LVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip woke early next morning, and his first thought was of Mildred. Itstruck him that he might meet her at Victoria Station and walk with her tothe shop. He shaved quickly, scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus tothe station. He was there by twenty to eight and watched the incomingtrains. Crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that earlyhour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along, sometimes inpairs, here and there a group of girls, but more often alone. They werewhite, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and they had an abstractedlook; the younger ones walked lightly, as though the cement of theplatform were pleasant to tread, but the others went as though impelled bya machine: their faces were set in an anxious frown.At last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her eagerly."Good-morning," he said. "I thought I'd come and see how you were afterlast night."She wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It was very clear that shewas not pleased to see him."Oh, I'm all right. I haven't got much time to waste.""D'you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with you?""I'm none too early. I shall have to walk fast," she answered, lookingdown at Philip's club-foot.He turned scarlet."I beg your pardon. I won't detain you.""You can please yourself."She went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to breakfast.He hated her. He knew he was a fool to bother about her; she was not thesort of woman who would ever care two straws for him, and she must lookupon his deformity with distaste. He made up his mind that he would not goin to tea that afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. She nodded to himas he came in and smiled."I expect I was rather short with you this morning," she said. "You see,I didn't expect you, and it came like a surprise.""Oh, it doesn't matter at all."He felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. He wasinfinitely grateful for one word of kindness."Why don't you sit down?" he asked. "Nobody's wanting you just now.""I don't mind if I do."He looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked his brainsanxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her by him; he wanted totell her how much she meant to him; but he did not know how to make lovenow that he loved in earnest."Where's your friend with the fair moustache? I haven't seen him lately""Oh, he's gone back to Birmingham. He's in business there. He only comesup to London every now and again.""Is he in love with you?""You'd better ask him," she said, with a laugh. "I don't know what it'sgot to do with you if he is."A bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning self-restraint."I wonder why you say things like that," was all he permitted himself tosay.She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers."It looks as if you didn't set much store on me," he added."Why should I?""No reason at all."He reached over for his paper."You are quick-tempered," she said, when she saw the gesture. "You do takeoffence easily."He smiled and looked at her appealingly."Will you do something for me?" he asked."That depends what it is.""Let me walk back to the station with you tonight.""I don't mind."He went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight o'clock,when the shop closed, he was waiting outside."You are a caution," she said, when she came out. "I don't understandyou.""I shouldn't have thought it was very difficult," he answered bitterly."Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?""I don't know and I don't care.""They all laugh at you, you know. They say you're spoony on me.""Much you care," he muttered."Now then, quarrelsome."At the station he took a ticket and said he was going to accompany herhome."You don't seem to have much to do with your time," she said."I suppose I can waste it in my own way."They seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. The fact was that hehated himself for loving her. She seemed to be constantly humiliating him,and for each snub that he endured he owed her a grudge. But she was in afriendly mood that evening, and talkative: she told him that her parentswere dead; she gave him to understand that she did not have to earn herliving, but worked for amusement."My aunt doesn't like my going to business. I can have the best ofeverything at home. I don't want you to think I work because I need to."Philip knew that she was not speaking the truth. The gentility of herclass made her use this pretence to avoid the stigma attached to earningher living."My family's very well-connected," she said.Philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it."What are you laughing at?" she said quickly. "Don't you believe I'mtelling you the truth?""Of course I do," he answered.She looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment could not resist thetemptation to impress him with the splendour of her early days."My father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three servants. We had acook and a housemaid and an odd man. We used to grow beautiful roses.People used to stop at the gate and ask who the house belonged to, theroses were so beautiful. Of course it isn't very nice for me having to mixwith them girls in the shop, it's not the class of person I've been usedto, and sometimes I really think I'll give up business on that account.It's not the work I mind, don't think that; but it's the class of peopleI have to mix with."They were sitting opposite one another in the train, and Philip, listeningsympathetically to what she said, was quite happy. He was amused at hernaivete and slightly touched. There was a very faint colour in her cheeks.He was thinking that it would be delightful to kiss the tip of her chin."The moment you come into the shop I saw you was a gentleman in everysense of the word. Was your father a professional man?""He was a doctor.""You can always tell a professional man. There's something about them, Idon't know what it is, but I know at once."They walked along from the station together."I say, I want you to come and see another play with me," he said."I don't mind," she said."You might go so far as to say you'd like to.""Why?""It doesn't matter. Let's fix a day. Would Saturday night suit you?""Yes, that'll do."They made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the corner ofthe road in which she lived. She gave him her hand, and he held it."I say, I do so awfully want to call you Mildred.""You may if you like, I don't care.""And you'll call me Philip, won't you?""I will if I can think of it. It seems more natural to call you Mr.Carey."He drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back."What are you doing?""Won't you kiss me good-night?" he whispered."Impudence!" she said.She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house.Philip bought tickets for Saturday night. It was not one of the days onwhich she got off early and therefore she would have no time to go homeand change; but she meant to bring a frock up with her in the morning andhurry into her clothes at the shop. If the manageress was in a good tempershe would let her go at seven. Philip had agreed to wait outside from aquarter past seven onwards. He looked forward to the occasion with painfuleagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the station hethought she would let him kiss her. The vehicle gave every facility for aman to put his arm round a girl's waist (an advantage which the hansom hadover the taxi of the present day), and the delight of that was worth thecost of the evening's entertainment.But on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order to confirmthe arrangements, he met the man with the fair moustache coming out of theshop. He knew by now that he was called Miller. He was a naturalizedGerman, who had anglicised his name, and he had lived many years inEngland. Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English was fluentand natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native. Philip knewthat he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; buthe took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwisedistressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon hisrival as no better off than himself. But his heart sank now, for his firstthought was that Miller's sudden appearance might interfere with the jauntwhich he had so looked forward to. He entered, sick with apprehension. Thewaitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it."I'm awfully, sorry" she said, with an expression on her face of realdistress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after all.""Why?" said Philip."Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's not my fault. My auntwas taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so I must go andsit with her. She can't be left alone, can she?""It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead.""But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them."He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up."What are you doing that for?""You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself,do you? I only took seats there for your sake.""You can't see me home if that's what you mean?""You've made other arrangements.""I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as selfish as all therest of them. You only think of yourself. It's not my fault if my aunt'squeer."She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very little aboutwomen, or he would have been aware that one should accept their mosttransparent lies. He made up his mind that he would watch the shop and seefor certain whether Mildred went out with the German. He had an unhappypassion for certainty. At seven he stationed himself on the oppositepavement. He looked about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutesshe came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when hetook her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was not goinghome. She saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, andthen came straight up to him."What are you doing here?" she said."Taking the air," he answered."You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was agentleman.""Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?"he murmured.There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. Hewanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him."I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not obliged to come outwith you. I tell you I'm going home, and I won't be followed or spiedupon.""Have you seen Miller today?""That's no business of yours. In point of fact I haven't, so you're wrongagain.""I saw him this afternoon. He'd just come out of the shop when I went in.""Well, what if he did? I can go out with him if I want to, can't I? Idon't know what you've got to say to it.""He's keeping you waiting, isn't he?""Well, I'd rather wait for him than have you wait for me. Put that in yourpipe and smoke it. And now p'raps you'll go off home and mind your ownbusiness in future."His mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice trembledwhen he spoke."I say, don't be beastly with me, Mildred. You know I'm awfully fond ofyou. I think I love you with all my heart. Won't you change your mind? Iwas looking forward to this evening so awfully. You see, he hasn't come,and he can't care twopence about you really. Won't you dine with me? I'llget some more tickets, and we'll go anywhere you like.""I tell you I won't. It's no good you talking. I've made up my mind, andwhen I make up my mind I keep to it."He looked at her for a moment. His heart was torn with anguish. Peoplewere hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and omnibuses rolled bynoisily. He saw that Mildred's eyes were wandering. She was afraid ofmissing Miller in the crowd."I can't go on like this," groaned Philip. "it's too degrading. if I gonow I go for good. Unless you'll come with me tonight you'll never see meagain.""You seem to think that'll be an awful thing for me. All I say is, goodriddance to bad rubbish.""Then good-bye."He nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his heart that shewould call him back. At the next lamp-post he stopped and looked over hisshoulder. He thought she might beckon to him--he was willing to forgeteverything, he was ready for any humiliation--but she had turned away, andapparently had ceased to trouble about him. He realised that she was gladto be quit of him.