wohnzimmer sessel elektrisch

chapter xcv when they returned to london philip beganhis dressing in the surgical wards. he was not so much interested in surgery asin medicine, which, a more empirical science, offered greater scope to theimagination. the work was a little harder than thecorresponding work on the medical side. there was a lecture from nine till ten,when he went into the wards; there wounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out,bandages renewed: philip prided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him to wring a word of approval froma nurse.

on certain afternoons in the week therewere operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a white jacket, ready tohand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or to sponge the blood away sothat he could see what he was about. when some rare operation was to beperformed the theatre would fill up, but generally there were not more than half adozen students present, and then the proceedings had a cosiness which philipenjoyed. at that time the world at large seemed tohave a passion for appendicitis, and a good many cases came to the operating theatrefor this complaint: the surgeon for whom philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with

a colleague as to which could remove anappendix in the shortest time and with the smallest incision.in due course philip was put on accident duty. the dressers took this in turn; it lastedthree days, during which they lived in hospital and ate their meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor near the casualty ward, with a bed thatshut up during the day into a cupboard. the dresser on duty had to be at hand dayand night to see to any casualty that came in. you were on the move all the time, and notmore than an hour or two passed during the

night without the clanging of the bell justabove your head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. saturday night was of course the busiesttime and the closing of the public-houses the busiest hour. men would be brought in by the police deaddrunk and it would be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, ratherthe worse for liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or a bleeding nose which their husbands had given them:some would vow to have the law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it hadbeen an accident.

what the dresser could manage himself hedid, but if there was anything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did thiswith care, since the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down fiveflights of stairs for nothing. the cases ranged from a cut finger to a cutthroat. boys came in with hands mangled by somemachine, men were brought who had been knocked down by a cab, and children who hadbroken a limb while playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by the police: philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed manwith a great gash from ear to ear, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards incharge of a constable, silent, angry

because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of the fact that he would tryagain to kill himself as soon as he was released. the wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemma when patients were brought in by the police: ifthey were sent on to the station and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and it was very difficult sometimesto tell if a man was dying or drunk. philip did not go to bed till he was tiredout, so that he should not have the bother of getting up again in an hour; and he satin the casualty ward talking in the

intervals of work with the night-nurse. she was a gray-haired woman of masculineappearance, who had been night-nurse in the casualty department for twenty years.she liked the work because she was her own mistress and had no sister to bother her. her movements were slow, but she wasimmensely capable and she never failed in an emergency.the dressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength. she had seen thousands of them, and theymade no impression upon her: she always called them mr. brown; and when theyexpostulated and told her their real names,

she merely nodded and went on calling themmr. brown. it interested philip to sit with her in thebare room, with its two horse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. she had long ceased to look upon the peoplewho came in as human beings; they were drunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. she took the vice and misery and cruelty ofthe world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or blame in humanactions: she accepted. she had a certain grim humour. "i remember one suicide," she said tophilip, "who threw himself into the thames.

they fished him out and brought him here,and ten days later he developed typhoid fever from swallowing thames water." "did he die?""yes, he did all right. i could never make up my mind if it wassuicide or not.... they're a funny lot, suicides. i remember one man who couldn't get anywork to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a revolver; but hemade a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all right. and then, if you please, with an eye goneand a piece of his face blow away, he came

to the conclusion that the world wasn'tsuch a bad place after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. thing i've always noticed, people don'tcommit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that's just a fancy of novelists; theycommit suicide because they haven't got any money. i wonder why that is.""i suppose money's more important than love," suggested philip.money was in any case occupying philip's thoughts a good deal just then. he discovered the little truth there was inthe airy saying which himself had repeated,

that two could live as cheaply as one, andhis expenses were beginning to worry him. mildred was not a good manager, and it costthem as much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed clothes,and mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it was impossible forher to do without. when they returned from brighton she hadannounced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite steps, andpresently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. when she was well she answered one or twoadvertisements, but nothing came of it: either she arrived too late and the vacantplace was filled, or the work was more than

she felt strong enough to do. once she got an offer, but the wages wereonly fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth more than that."it's no good letting oneself be put upon," she remarked. "people don't respect you if you letyourself go too cheap." "i don't think fourteen shillings is sobad," answered philip, drily. he could not help thinking how useful itwould be towards the expenses of the household, and mildred was alreadybeginning to hint that she did not get a place because she had not got a decentdress to interview employers in.

he gave her the dress, and she made one ortwo more attempts, but philip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. she did not want to work. the only way he knew to make money was onthe stock exchange, and he was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of thesummer; but war had broken out with the transvaal and nothing was doing in southafricans. macalister told him that redvers bullerwould march into pretoria in a month and then everything would boom. the only thing was to wait patiently.what they wanted was a british reverse to

knock things down a bit, and then it mightbe worth while buying. philip began reading assiduously the 'citychat' of his favourite newspaper. he was worried and irritable. once or twice he spoke sharply to mildred,and since she was neither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and theyquarrelled. philip always expressed his regret for whathe had said, but mildred had not a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for acouple of days. she got on his nerves in all sorts of ways;by the manner in which she ate, and by the untidiness which made her leave articles ofclothing about their sitting-room: philip

was excited by the war and devoured the papers, morning and evening; but she tookno interest in anything that happened. she had made the acquaintance of two orthree people who lived in the street, and one of them had asked if she would like thecurate to call on her. she wore a wedding-ring and called herselfmrs. carey. on philip's walls were two or three of thedrawings which he had made in paris, nudes, two of women and one of miguel ajuria,standing very square on his feet, with clenched fists. philip kept them because they were the bestthings he had done, and they reminded him

of happy days.mildred had long looked at them with disfavour. "i wish you'd take those drawings down,philip," she said to him at last. "mrs. foreman, of number thirteen, came inyesterday afternoon, and i didn't know which way to look. i saw her staring at them.""what's the matter with them?" "they're indecent.disgusting, that's what i call it, to have drawings of naked people about. and it isn't nice for baby either.she's beginning to notice things now."

"how can you be so vulgar?""vulgar? modest, i call it. i've never said anything, but d'you think ilike having to look at those naked people all day long.""have you no sense of humour at all, mildred?" he asked frigidly. "i don't know what sense of humour's got todo with it. i've got a good mind to take them downmyself. if you want to know what i think aboutthem, i think they're disgusting." "i don't want to know what you think aboutthem, and i forbid you to touch them."

when mildred was cross with him shepunished him through the baby. the little girl was as fond of philip as hewas of her, and it was her great pleasure every morning to crawl into his room (shewas getting on for two now and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. when mildred stopped this the poor childwould cry bitterly. to philip's remonstrances she replied:"i don't want her to get into habits." and if then he said anything more she said: "it's nothing to do with you what i do withmy child. to hear you talk one would think you washer father.

i'm her mother, and i ought to know what'sgood for her, oughtn't i?" philip was exasperated by mildred'sstupidity; but he was so indifferent to her now that it was only at times she made himangry. he grew used to having her about. christmas came, and with it a couple ofdays holiday for philip. he brought some holly in and decorated theflat, and on christmas day he gave small presents to mildred and the baby. there were only two of them so they couldnot have a turkey, but mildred roasted a chicken and boiled a christmas puddingwhich she had bought at a local grocer's.

they stood themselves a bottle of wine. when they had dined philip sat in his arm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine had made him forgetfor a while the anxiety about money which was so constantly with him. he felt happy and comfortable.presently mildred came in to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night,and with a smile he went into mildred's bed-room. then, telling the child to go to sleep, heturned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case she cried, went back into thesitting-room.

"where are you going to sit?" he askedmildred. "you sit in your chair.i'm going to sit on the floor." when he sat down she settled herself infront of the fire and leaned against his knees. he could not help remembering that this washow they had sat together in her rooms in the vauxhall bridge road, but the positionshad been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leaned his head against herknee. how passionately he had loved her then!now he felt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time.

he seemed still to feel twined round hisneck the baby's soft little arms. "are you comfy?" he asked.she looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. they gazed into the fire dreamily, withoutspeaking to one another. at last she turned round and stared at himcuriously. "d'you know that you haven't kissed me oncesince i came here?" she said suddenly. "d'you want me to?" he smiled."i suppose you don't care for me in that way any more?" "i'm very fond of you.""you're much fonder of baby."

he did not answer, and she laid her cheekagainst his hand. "you're not angry with me any more?" sheasked presently, with her eyes cast down. "why on earth should i be?""i've never cared for you as i do now. it's only since i passed through the firethat i've learnt to love you." it chilled philip to hear her make use ofthe sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which she devoured. then he wondered whether what she said hadany meaning for her: perhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelingsthan the stilted language of the family herald.

"it seems so funny our living together likethis." he did not reply for quite a long time, andsilence fell upon them again; but at last he spoke and seemed conscious of nointerval. "you mustn't be angry with me. one can't help these things.i remember that i thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and theother; but it was very silly of me. you didn't love me, and it was absurd toblame you for that. i thought i could make you love me, but iknow now that was impossible. i don't know what it is that makes someonelove you, but whatever it is, it's the only

thing that matters, and if it isn't thereyou won't create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of that sort." "i should have thought if you'd loved mereally you'd have loved me still." "i should have thought so too. i remember how i used to think that itwould last for ever, i felt i would rather die than be without you, and i used to longfor the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so that nobody cared for you anymore and i should have you all to myself." she did not answer, and presently she gotup and said she was going to bed. she gave a timid little smile.

"it's christmas day, philip, won't you kissme good-night?" he gave a laugh, blushed slightly, andkissed her. she went to her bed-room and he began toread. chapter xcvi the climax came two or three weeks later.mildred was driven by philip's behaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. there were many different emotions in hersoul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility.she spent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position.

she did not put all her feelings intowords, she did not even know what they were, but certain things stood out in hermind, and she thought of them over and over again. she had never understood philip, nor hadvery much liked him; but she was pleased to have him about her because she thought hewas a gentleman. she was impressed because his father hadbeen a doctor and his uncle was a clergyman. she despised him a little because she hadmade such a fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in hispresence; she could not let herself go, and

she felt that he was criticising hermanners. when she first came to live in the littlerooms in kennington she was tired out and ashamed. she was glad to be left alone.it was a comfort to think that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in allweathers, and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. she had hated the life she led. it was horrible to have to be affable andsubservient; and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself asshe thought of the roughness of men and

their brutal language. but it crossed her mind very seldom. she was grateful to philip for coming toher rescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and how badly shehad treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. it was easy to make it up to him.it meant very little to her. she was surprised when he refused hersuggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put on airs if he liked, she didnot care, he would be anxious enough in a little while, and then it would be her turn

to refuse; if he thought it was anydeprivation to her he was very much mistaken.she had no doubt of her power over him. he was peculiar, but she knew him throughand through. he had so often quarrelled with her andsworn he would never see her again, and then in a little while he had come on hisknees begging to be forgiven. it gave her a thrill to think how he hadcringed before her. he would have been glad to lie down on theground for her to walk on him. she had seen him cry. she knew exactly how to treat him, pay noattention to him, just pretend you didn't

notice his tempers, leave him severelyalone, and in a little while he was sure to grovel. she laughed a little to herself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt before her.she had had her fling now. she knew what men were and did not want tohave anything more to do with them. she was quite ready to settle down withphilip. when all was said, he was a gentleman inevery sense of the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it?anyhow she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step.

she was glad to see how fond he was growingof the baby, though it tickled her a good deal; it was comic that he should set somuch store on another man's child. he was peculiar and no mistake. but one or two things surprised her. she had been used to his subservience: hewas only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, she was accustomed to see himcast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not improved inthe last year. it never struck her for a moment that therecould be any change in his feelings, and

she thought it was only acting when he paidno heed to her bad temper. he wanted to read sometimes and told her tostop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk, and was so puzzledthat she did neither. then came the conversation in which he toldher that he intended their relations to be platonic, and, remembering an incident oftheir common past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her beingpregnant. she took pains to reassure him.it made no difference. she was the sort of woman who was unable torealise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her relations with menhad been purely on those lines; and she

could not understand that they ever hadother interests. the thought struck her that philip was inlove with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital orpeople he met out; but artful questions led her to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the athelny household; and itforced itself upon her also that philip, like most medical students, was unconsciousof the sex of the nurses with whom his work threw him in contact. they were associated in his mind with afaint odour of iodoform. philip received no letters, and there wasno girl's photograph among his belongings.

if he was in love with someone, he was veryclever at hiding it; and he answered all mildred's questions with frankness andapparently without suspicion that there was any motive in them. "i don't believe he's in love with anybodyelse," she said to herself at last. it was a relief, for in that case he wascertainly still in love with her; but it made his behaviour very puzzling. if he was going to treat her like that whydid he ask her to come and live at the flat?it was unnatural. mildred was not a woman who conceived thepossibility of compassion, generosity, or

kindness.her only conclusion was that philip was queer. she took it into her head that the reasonsfor his conduct were chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagancesof cheap fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for hisdelicacy. her fancy ran riot with bittermisunderstandings, purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruelcold of a christmas night. she made up her mind that when they went tobrighton 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 inducephilip to share the same room with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tonein his voice she had never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not wanther. 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 hada 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 tohumble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did not knowwhich 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 beparticularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked along the frontat night he made some excuse in a while to release himself, as though it wereunpleasant for him to be touched by her. she could not make it out. the only hold she had over him was throughthe baby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder

and fonder: she could make him white withanger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only time the old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stoodwith the baby in her arms. she noticed it when she was beingphotographed like that by a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood inthe same way for philip to look at her. when they got back to london mildred beganlooking for the work she had asserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to beindependent of philip; and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to him that she was going intorooms and would take the child with her.

but her heart failed her when she came intocloser contact with the possibility. she had grown unused to the long hours, shedid not want to be at the beck and call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted atthe thought of wearing once more a uniform. she had made out to such of the neighboursas she knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if they heard thatshe had to go out and work. her natural indolence asserted itself. she did not want to leave philip, and solong as he was willing to provide for her, she did not see why she should. there was no money to throw away, but shegot her board and lodging, and he might get

better off. his uncle was an old man and might die anyday, he would come into a little then, and even as things were, it was better thanslaving from morning till night for a few shillings a week. her efforts relaxed; she kept on readingthe advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to show that she wanted to dosomething if anything that was worth her while presented itself. but panic seized her, and she was afraidthat philip would grow tired of supporting her.

she had no hold over him at all now, andshe fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond of the baby. she brooded over it all, and she thought toherself angrily that she would make him pay for all this some day.she could not reconcile herself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. she would make him.she suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desired philip.he was so cold now that it exasperated her. she thought of him in that way incessantly. she thought that he was treating her verybadly, and she did not know what she had

done to deserve it.she kept on saying to herself that it was unnatural they should live like that. then she thought that if things weredifferent and she were going to have a baby, he would be sure to marry her. he was funny, but he was a gentleman inevery sense of the word, no one could deny that. at last it became an obsession with her,and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. he never even kissed her now, and shewanted him to: she remembered how ardently

he had been used to press her lips.it gave her a curious feeling to think of it. she often looked at his mouth. one evening, at the beginning of february,philip told her that he was dining with lawson, who was giving a party in hisstudio to celebrate his birthday; and he would not be in till late; lawson had bought a couple of bottles of the punchthey favoured from the tavern in beak street, and they proposed to have a merryevening. mildred asked if there were going to bewomen there, but philip told her there were

not; only men had been invited; and theywere just going to sit and talk and smoke: mildred did not think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she wouldhave half a dozen models about. she went to bed, but could not sleep, andpresently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicket at thelanding, so that philip could not get in. he came back about one, and she heard himcurse when he found that the wicket was closed.she got out of bed and opened. "why on earth did you shut yourself in? i'm sorry i've dragged you out of bed.""i left it open on purpose, i can't think

how it came to be shut.""hurry up and get back to bed, or you'll catch cold." he walked into the sitting-room and turnedup the gas. she followed him in.she went up to the fire. "i want to warm my feet a bit. they're like ice."he sat down and began to take off his boots.his eyes were shining and his cheeks were flushed. she thought he had been drinking."have you been enjoying yourself?" she

asked, with a smile."yes, i've had a ripping time." philip was quite sober, but he had beentalking and laughing, and he was excited still.an evening of that sort reminded him of the old days in paris. he was in high spirits.he took his pipe out of his pocket and filled it."aren't you going to bed?" she asked. "not yet, i'm not a bit sleepy. lawson was in great form.he talked sixteen to the dozen from the moment i got there till the moment i left.""what did you talk about?"

"heaven knows! of every subject under the sun.you should have seen us all shouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening."philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and mildred laughed too. she was pretty sure he had drunk more thanwas good for him. that was exactly what she had expected.she knew men. "can i sit down?" she said. before he could answer she settled herselfon his knees. "if you're not going to bed you'd better goand put on a dressing-gown."

"oh, i'm all right as i am." then putting her arms round his neck, sheplaced her face against his and said: "why are you so horrid to me, phil?"he tried to get up, but she would not let him. "i do love you, philip," she said."don't talk damned rot." "it isn't, it's true.i can't live without you. i want you." he released himself from her arms."please get up. you're making a fool of yourself and you'remaking me feel a perfect idiot."

"i love you, philip. i want to make up for all the harm i didyou. i can't go on like this, it's not in humannature." he slipped out of the chair and left her init. "i'm very sorry, but it's too late."she gave a heart-rending sob. "but why? how can you be so cruel?""i suppose it's because i loved you too much.i wore the passion out. the thought of anything of that sorthorrifies me.

i can't look at you now without thinking ofemil and griffiths. one can't help those things, i suppose it'sjust nerves." she seized his hand and covered it withkisses. "don't," he cried. she sank back into the chair."i can't go on like this. if you won't love me, i'd rather go away.""don't be foolish, you haven't anywhere to go. you can stay here as long as you like, butit must be on the definite understanding that we're friends and nothing more."then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of

passion and gave a soft, insinuating laugh. she sidled up to philip and put her armsround him. she made her voice low and wheedling."don't be such an old silly. i believe you're nervous. you don't know how nice i can be."she put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. to philip her smile was an abominable leer,and the suggestive glitter of her eyes filled him with horror.he drew back instinctively. "i won't," he said.

but she would not let him go.she sought his mouth with her lips. he took her hands and tore them roughlyapart and pushed her away. "you disgust me," he said. "me?"she steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece.she looked at him for an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. she gave a shrill, angry laugh."i disgust you." she paused and drew in her breath sharply.then she burst into a furious torrent of abuse.

she shouted at the top of her voice.she called him every foul name she could think of. she used language so obscene that philipwas astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shocked by coarseness, thatit had never occurred to him that she knew the words she used now. she came up to him and thrust her face inhis. it was distorted with passion, and in hertumultuous speech the spittle dribbled over her lips. "i never cared for you, not once, i wasmaking a fool of you always, you bored me,

you bored me stiff, and i hated you, iwould never have let you touch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick wheni had to let you kiss me. we laughed at you, griffiths and me, welaughed because you was such a mug. a mug! a mug!"then she burst again into abominable invective. she accused him of every mean fault; shesaid he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he was vain, selfish; she castvirulent ridicule on everything upon which he was most sensitive.

and at last she turned to go.she kept on, with hysterical violence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthyepithet. she seized the handle of the door and flungit open. then she turned round and hurled at him theinjury which she knew was the only one that really touched him. she threw into the word all the malice andall the venom of which she was capable. she flung it at him as though it were ablow. "cripple!" chapter xcvii

philip awoke with a start next morning,conscious that it was late, and looking at his watch found it was nine o'clock. he jumped out of bed and went into thekitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. there was no sign of mildred, and thethings which she had used for her supper the night before still lay in the sinkunwashed. he knocked at her door. "wake up, mildred.it's awfully late." she did not answer, even after a secondlouder knocking, and he concluded that she

was sulking. he was in too great a hurry to bother aboutthat. he put some water on to boil and jumpedinto his bath which was always poured out the night before in order to take the chilloff. he presumed that mildred would cook hisbreakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the sitting-room.she had done that two or three times when she was out of temper. but he heard no sound of her moving, andrealised that if he wanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself.

he was irritated that she should play himsuch a trick on a morning when he had over- slept himself. there was still no sign of her when he wasready, but he heard her moving about her room.she was evidently getting up. he made himself some tea and cut himself acouple of pieces of bread and butter, which he ate while he was putting on his boots,then bolted downstairs and along the street into the main road to catch his tram. while his eyes sought out the newspapershops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the scene of the nightbefore: now that it was over and he had

slept on it, he could not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had beenridiculous, but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had beenoverwhelming. he was angry with mildred because she hadforced him into that absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thoughtof her outburst and the filthy language she had used. he could not help flushing when heremembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. he had long known that when his fellowswere angry with him they never failed to

taunt him with his deformity. he had seen men at the hospital imitate hiswalk, not before him as they used at school, but when they thought he was notlooking. he knew now that they did it from no wilfulunkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and because it was aneasy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could never resign himself to it. he was glad to throw himself into his work.the ward seemed pleasant and friendly when he entered it.the sister greeted him with a quick, business-like smile.

"you're very late, mr. carey.""i was out on the loose last night." "you look it.""thank you." laughing, he went to the first of hiscases, a boy with tuberculous ulcers, and removed his bandages. the boy was pleased to see him, and philipchaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. philip was a favourite with the patients;he treated them good-humouredly; and he had gentle, sensitive hands which did not hurtthem: some of the dressers were a little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods.

he lunched with his friends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter, with a cup of cocoa, and theytalked of the war. several men were going out, but theauthorities were particular and refused everyone who had not had a hospitalappointment. someone suggested that, if the war went on,in a while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the generalopinion was that it would be over in a month. now that roberts was there things would getall right in no time. this was macalister's opinion too, and hehad told philip that they must watch their

chance and buy just before peace wasdeclared. there would be a boom then, and they mightall make a bit of money. philip had left with macalisterinstructions to buy him stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. his appetite had been whetted by the thirtypounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now to make a couple of hundred.he finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to kennington. he wondered how mildred would behave thatevening. it was a nuisance to think that she wouldprobably be surly and refuse to answer his

questions. it was a warm evening for the time of year,and even in those gray streets of south london there was the languor of february;nature is restless then after the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and there is a rustle in theearth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its eternal activities. philip would have liked to drive onfurther, it was distasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air;but the desire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he smiled

to himself as he thought of her toddlingtowards him with a crow of delight. he was surprised, when he reached the houseand looked up mechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. he went upstairs and knocked, but got noanswer. when mildred went out she left the keyunder the mat and he found it there now. he let himself in and going into thesitting-room struck a match. something had happened, he did not at onceknow what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room was suddenly filled withthe glare and he looked round. he gasped.

the whole place was wrecked.everything in it had been wilfully destroyed.anger seized him, and he rushed into mildred's room. it was dark and empty. when he had got a light he saw that she hadtaken away all her things and the baby's (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usual place on the landing, but thought mildred had taken the baby out;) and all the things on thewashing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawn cross-ways through the seats ofthe two chairs, the pillow had been slit

open, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, the looking-glassappeared to have been broken with a hammer. philip was bewildered.he went into his own room, and here too everything was in confusion. the basin and the ewer had been smashed,the looking-glass was in fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. mildred had made a slit large enough to puther hand into the pillow and had scattered the feathers about the room.she had jabbed a knife into the blankets. on the dressing-table were photographs ofphilip's mother, the frames had been

smashed and the glass shivered.philip went into the tiny kitchen. everything that was breakable was broken,glasses, pudding-basins, plates, dishes. it took philip's breath away. mildred had left no letter, nothing butthis ruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which she hadgone about her work. he went back into the sitting-room andlooked about him. he was so astonished that he no longer feltangry. he looked curiously at the kitchen-knifeand the coal-hammer, which were lying on the table where she had left them.then his eye caught a large carving-knife

in the fireplace which had been broken. it must have taken her a long time to do somuch damage. lawson's portrait of him had been cutcross-ways and gaped hideously. his own drawings had been ripped in pieces;and the photographs, manet's olympia and the odalisque of ingres, the portrait ofphilip iv, had been smashed with great blows of the coal-hammer. there were gashes in the table-cloth and inthe curtains and in the two arm-chairs. they were quite ruined. on one wall over the table which philipused as his desk was the little bit of

persian rug which cronshaw had given him.mildred had always hated it. "if it's a rug it ought to go on thefloor," she said, "and it's a dirty stinking bit of stuff, that's all it is."it made her furious because philip told her it contained the answer to a great riddle. she thought he was making fun of her.she had drawn the knife right through it three times, it must have required somestrength, and it hung now in tatters. philip had two or three blue and whiteplates, of no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums and likedthem for their associations. they littered the floor in fragments.

there were long gashes on the backs of hisbooks, and she had taken the trouble to tear pages out of the unbound french ones.the little ornaments on the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. everything that it had been possible todestroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed. the whole of philip's belongings would nothave sold for thirty pounds, but most of them were old friends, and he was adomestic creature, attached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had been proud of his little home, and on solittle money had made it pretty and

characteristic.he sank down now in despair. he asked himself how she could have been socruel. a sudden fear got him on his feet again andinto the passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. he opened it and gave a sigh of relief.she had apparently forgotten it and none of his things was touched. he went back into the sitting-room and,surveying the scene, wondered what to do; he had not the heart to begin trying to setthings straight; besides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry.

he went out and got himself something toeat. when he came in he was cooler. a little pang seized him as he thought ofthe child, and he wondered whether she would miss him, at first perhaps, but in aweek she would have forgotten him; and he was thankful to be rid of mildred. he did not think of her with wrath, butwith an overwhelming sense of boredom. "i hope to god i never see her again," hesaid aloud. the only thing now was to leave the rooms,and he made up his mind to give notice the next morning.

he could not afford to make good the damagedone, and he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still.he would be glad to get out of them. the expense had worried him, and now therecollection of mildred would be in them always. philip was impatient and could never resttill he had put in action the plan which he had in mind; so on the following afternoonhe got in a dealer in second-hand furniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged and undamaged; and two dayslater he moved into the house opposite the hospital in which he had had rooms whenfirst he became a medical student.

the landlady was a very decent woman. he took a bed-room at the top, which shelet him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby and looked on the yardof the house that backed on to it, but he had nothing now except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge socheaply. > chapter xcviii and now it happened that the fortunes ofphilip carey, of no consequence to any but himself, were affected by the eventsthrough which his country was passing.

history was being made, and the process wasso significant that it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medicalstudent. battle after battle, magersfontein,colenso, spion kop, lost on the playing fields of eton, had humiliated the nationand dealt the death-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then had found no one seriously to oppose theirassertion that they possessed a natural instinct of government.the old order was being swept away: history was being made indeed. then the colossus put forth his strength,and, blundering again, at last blundered

into the semblance of victory. cronje surrendered at paardeberg, ladysmithwas relieved, and at the beginning of march lord roberts marched into bloemfontein. it was two or three days after the news ofthis reached london that macalister came into the tavern in beak street andannounced joyfully that things were looking brighter on the stock exchange. peace was in sight, roberts would marchinto pretoria within a few weeks, and shares were going up already.there was bound to be a boom. "now's the time to come in," he toldphilip.

"it's no good waiting till the public getson to it. it's now or never." he had inside information.the manager of a mine in south africa had cabled to the senior partner of his firmthat the plant was uninjured. they would start working again as soon aspossible. it wasn't a speculation, it was aninvestment. to show how good a thing the senior partnerthought it macalister told philip that he had bought five hundred shares for both hissisters: he never put them into anything that wasn't as safe as the bank of england.

"i'm going to put my shirt on it myself,"he said. the shares were two and an eighth to aquarter. he advised philip not to be greedy, but tobe satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. he was buying three hundred for himself andsuggested that philip should do the same. he would hold them and sell when he thoughtfit. philip had great faith in him, partlybecause he was a scotsman and therefore by nature cautious, and partly because he hadbeen right before. he jumped at the suggestion. "i daresay we shall be able to sell beforethe account," said macalister, "but if not,

i'll arrange to carry them over for you."it seemed a capital system to philip. you held on till you got your profit, andyou never even had to put your hand in your pocket.he began to watch the stock exchange columns of the paper with new interest. next day everything was up a little, andmacalister wrote to say that he had had to pay two and a quarter for the shares.he said that the market was firm. but in a day or two there was a set-back. the news that came from south africa wasless reassuring, and philip with anxiety saw that his shares had fallen to two; butmacalister was optimistic, the boers

couldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that roberts wouldmarch into johannesburg before the middle of april.at the account philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. it worried him considerably, but he feltthat the only course was to hold on: in his circumstances the loss was too great forhim to pocket. for two or three weeks nothing happened;the boers would not understand that they were beaten and nothing remained for thembut to surrender: in fact they had one or two small successes, and philip's sharesfell half a crown more.

it became evident that the war was notfinished. there was a lot of selling. when macalister saw philip he waspessimistic. "i'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't beto cut the loss. i've been paying out about as much as iwant to in differences." philip was sick with anxiety. he could not sleep at night; he bolted hisbreakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get over to the clubreading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad, and sometimes there was

no news at all, but when the shares movedit was to go down. he did not know what to do. if he sold now he would lose altogetherhard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave him only eighty pounds togo on with. he wished with all his heart that he hadnever been such a fool as to dabble on the stock exchange, but the only thing was tohold on; something decisive might happen any day and the shares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted tomake good his loss. it was his only chance of finishing hiscourse at the hospital.

the summer session was beginning in may,and at the end of it he meant to take the examination in midwifery. then he would only have a year more; hereckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he could manage it, feesand all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that was the least it could possibly bedone on. early in april he went to the tavern inbeak street anxious to see macalister. it eased him a little to discuss thesituation with him; and to realise that numerous people beside himself weresuffering from loss of money made his own trouble a little less intolerable.

but when philip arrived no one was therebut hayward, and no sooner had philip seated himself than he said:"i'm sailing for the cape on sunday." "are you!" exclaimed philip. hayward was the last person he would haveexpected to do anything of the kind. at the hospital men were going out now innumbers; the government was glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, goingout as troopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as it waslearned that they were medical students. a wave of patriotic feeling had swept overthe country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of society.

"what are you going as?" asked philip."oh, in the dorset yeomanry. i'm going as a trooper."philip had known hayward for eight years. the youthful intimacy which had come fromphilip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell him of art andliterature had long since vanished; but habit had taken its place; and when hayward was in london they saw one another once ortwice a week. he still talked about books with a delicateappreciation. philip was not yet tolerant, and sometimeshayward's conversation irritated him. he no longer believed implicitly thatnothing in the world was of consequence but

art. he resented hayward's contempt for actionand success. philip, stirring his punch, thought of hisearly friendship and his ardent expectation that hayward would do great things; it waslong since he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that hayward would never doanything but talk. he found his three hundred a year moredifficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he was a youngman; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, were worn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thoughtpossible.

he was too stout and no artful arrangementof his fair hair could conceal the fact that he was bald.his blue eyes were dull and pale. it was not hard to guess that he drank toomuch. "what on earth made you think of going outto the cape?" asked philip. "oh, i don't know, i thought i ought to." philip was silent.he felt rather silly. he understood that hayward was being drivenby an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for. some power within him made it seemnecessary to go and fight for his country.

it was strange, since he consideredpatriotism no more than a prejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism,he had looked upon england as a place of exile. his countrymen in the mass wounded hissusceptibilities. philip wondered what it was that madepeople do things which were so contrary to all their theories of life. it would have been reasonable for haywardto stand aside and watch with a smile while the barbarians slaughtered one another. it looked as though men were puppets in thehands of an unknown force, which drove them

to do this and that; and sometimes theyused their reason to justify their actions; and when this was impossible they did theactions in despite of reason. "people are very extraordinary," saidphilip. "i should never have expected you to go outas a trooper." hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, andsaid nothing. "i was examined yesterday," he remarked atlast. "it was worth while undergoing the gene ofit to know that one was perfectly fit." philip noticed that he still used a frenchword in an affected way when an english one would have served.but just then macalister came in.

"i wanted to see you, carey," he said. "my people don't feel inclined to holdthose shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and they want you to takethem up." philip's heart sank. he knew that was impossible.it meant that he must accept the loss. his pride made him answer calmly."i don't know that i think that's worth while. you'd better sell them.""it's all very fine to say that, i'm not sure if i can.the market's stagnant, there are no

buyers." "but they're marked down at one and aneighth." "oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything.you can't get that for them." philip did not say anything for a moment. he was trying to collect himself."d'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?""oh, i don't say that. of course they're worth something, but yousee, nobody's buying them now." "then you must just sell them for what youcan get." macalister looked at philip narrowly.

he wondered whether he was very hard hit."i'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat.no one thought the war was going to hang on this way. i put you into them, but i was in myselftoo." "it doesn't matter at all," said philip."one has to take one's chance." he moved back to the table from which hehad got up to talk to macalister. he was dumfounded; his head suddenly beganto ache furiously; but he did not want them to think him unmanly. he sat on for an hour.he laughed feverishly at everything they

said.at last he got up to go. "you take it pretty coolly," saidmacalister, shaking hands with him. "i don't suppose anyone likes losingbetween three and four hundred pounds." when philip got back to his shabby littleroom he flung himself on his bed, and gave himself over to his despair. he kept on regretting his folly bitterly;and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what had happened wasinevitable just because it had happened, he could not help himself. he was utterly miserable.he could not sleep.

he remembered all the ways he had wastedmoney during the last few years. his head ached dreadfully. the following evening there came by thelast post the statement of his account. he examined his pass-book.he found that when he had paid everything he would have seven pounds left. seven pounds!he was thankful he had been able to pay. it would have been horrible to be obligedto confess to macalister that he had not the money. he was dressing in the eye-departmentduring the summer session, and he had

bought an ophthalmoscope off a student whohad one to sell. he had not paid for this, but he lacked thecourage to tell the student that he wanted to go back on his bargain.also he had to buy certain books. he had about five pounds to go on with. it lasted him six weeks; then he wrote tohis uncle a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to thewar he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless his unclecame to his help. he suggested that the vicar should lend hima hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthlyinstalments; he would pay interest on this

and promised to refund the capital bydegrees when he began to earn money. he would be qualified in a year and a halfat the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of getting an assistantship at threepounds a week. his uncle wrote back that he could donothing. it was not fair to ask him to sell out wheneverything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty to himselfmade it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. he ended the letter with a little homily. he had warned philip time after time, andphilip had never paid any attention to him;

he could not honestly say he was surprised;he had long expected that this would be the end of philip's extravagance and want ofbalance. philip grew hot and cold when he read this. it had never occurred to him that his unclewould refuse, and he burst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utterblankness: if his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. panic seized him and, putting aside hispride, he wrote again to the vicar of blackstable, placing the case before himmore urgently; but perhaps he did not explain himself properly and his uncle did

not realise in what desperate straits hewas, for he answered that he could not change his mind; philip was twenty-five andreally ought to be earning his living. when he died philip would come into alittle, but till then he refused to give him a penny. philip felt in the letter the satisfactionof a man who for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himselfjustified. chapter xcix philip began to pawn his clothes.he reduced his expenses by eating only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ateit, bread and butter and cocoa, at four so

that it should last him till next morning. he was so hungry by nine o'clock that hehad to go to bed. he thought of borrowing money from lawson,but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he asked him for five pounds. lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as hedid so, said: "you'll let me have it back in a week orso, won't you? i've got to pay my framer, and i'm awfullybroke just now." philip knew he would not be able to returnit, and the thought of what lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a coupleof days he took the money back untouched.

lawson was just going out to luncheon andasked philip to come too. philip could hardly eat, he was so glad toget some solid food. on sunday he was sure of a good dinner fromathelny. he hesitated to tell the athelnys what hadhappened to him: they had always looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, andhe had a dread that they would think less well of him if they knew he was penniless. though he had always been poor, thepossibility of not having enough to eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sortof thing that happened to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as ifhe had some disgraceful disease.

the situation in which he found himself wasquite outside the range of his experience. he was so taken aback that he did not knowwhat else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope thatsomething would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was happening to him was true; and he remembered how during hisfirst term at school he had often thought his life was a dream from which he wouldawake to find himself once more at home. but very soon he foresaw that in a week orso he would have no money at all. he must set about trying to earn somethingat once. if he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to the cape,

since the demand for medical men was nowgreat. except for his deformity he might haveenlisted in one of the yeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. he went to the secretary of the medicalschool and asked if he could give him the coaching of some backward student; but thesecretary held out no hope of getting him anything of the sort. philip read the advertisement columns ofthe medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant to a man whohad a dispensary in the fulham road. when he went to see him, he saw the doctorglance at his club-foot; and on hearing

that philip was only in his fourth year atthe hospital he said at once that his experience was insufficient: philip understood that this was only an excuse;the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as he wanted.philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. he knew french and german and thought theremight be some chance of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heartsink, but he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. though too shy to answer the advertisementswhich demanded a personal application, he

replied to those which asked for letters;but he had no experience to state and no recommendations: he was conscious that neither his german nor his french wascommercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew neither shorthandnor typewriting. he could not help recognising that his casewas hopeless. he thought of writing to the solicitor whohad been his father's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it wascontrary to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money hadbeen invested. he knew from his uncle that mr. nixonthoroughly disapproved of him.

he had gathered from philip's year in theaccountant's office that he was idle and incompetent."i'd sooner starve," philip muttered to himself. once or twice the possibility of suicidepresented itself to him; it would be easy to get something from the hospitaldispensary, and it was a comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means of making a painless end ofhimself; but it was not a course that he considered seriously. when mildred had left him to go withgriffiths his anguish had been so great

that he wanted to die in order to get ridof the pain. he did not feel like that now. he remembered that the casualty sister hadtold him how people oftener did away with themselves for want of money than for wantof love; and he chuckled when he thought that he was an exception. he wished only that he could talk hisworries over with somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them.he was ashamed. he went on looking for work. he left his rent unpaid for three weeks,explaining to his landlady that he would

get money at the end of the month; she didnot say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. when the end of the month came and sheasked if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it made him feelvery sick to say that he could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill on thefollowing saturday. "well, i 'ope you will, mr. carey, becausei 'ave my rent to pay, and i can't afford to let accounts run on." she did not speak with anger, but withdetermination that was rather frightening.

she paused for a moment and then said: "ifyou don't pay next saturday, i shall 'ave to complain to the secretary of the'ospital." "oh yes, that'll be all right." she looked at him for a little and glancedround the bare room. when she spoke it was without any emphasis,as though it were quite a natural thing to say. "i've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, andif you like to come down to the kitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner."philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at his throat.

"thank you very much, mrs. higgins, but i'mnot at all hungry." "very good, sir."when she left the room philip threw himself on his bed. he had to clench his fists in order toprevent himself from crying. chapter c saturday.it was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady.he had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. he had found no work.he had never been driven to extremities

before, and he was so dazed that he did notknow what to do. he had at the back of his mind a feelingthat the whole thing was a preposterous joke. he had no more than a few coppers left, hehad sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some books and one or twoodds and ends upon which he might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and goings:he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his room.the only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill.

he had not the courage.it was the middle of june. the night was fine and warm.he made up his mind to stay out. he walked slowly along the chelseaembankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then saton a bench and dozed. he did not know how long he slept; he awokewith a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on;but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. he walked on, he did not know why, and atlast came to chiswick, where he slept again.presently the hardness of the bench roused

the night seemed very long.he shivered. he was seized with a sense of his misery;and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on theembankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks flushin the darkness. he remembered stories he had heard of thosewho did and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been touniversities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a line toget soup from a charitable institution. it would be much better to commit suicide. he could not go on like that: lawson wouldhelp him when he knew what straits he was

in; it was absurd to let his pride preventhim from asking for assistance. he wondered why he had come such a cropper. he had always tried to do what he thoughtbest, and everything had gone wrong. he had helped people when he could, he didnot think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust thathe should be reduced to such a pass. but it was no good thinking about it. he walked on. it was now light: the river was beautifulin the silence, and there was something mysterious in the early day; it was goingto be very fine, and the sky, pale in the

dawn, was cloudless. he felt very tired, and hunger was gnawingat his entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of beingspoken to by a policeman. he dreaded the mortification of that. he felt dirty and wished he could have awash. at last he found himself at hampton court.he felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. he chose a cheap eating-house and went in;there was a smell of hot things, and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant toeat something nourishing enough to keep up

for the rest of the day, but his stomachrevolted at the sight of food. he had a cup of tea and some bread andbutter. he remembered then that it was sunday andhe could go to the athelnys; he thought of the roast beef and the yorkshire puddingthey would eat; but he was fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. he was feeling morose and wretched.he wanted to be left alone. he made up his mind that he would go intothe gardens of the palace and lie down. his bones ached. perhaps he would find a pump so that hecould wash his hands and face and drink

something; he was very thirsty; and nowthat he was no longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawnsand the great leafy trees. he felt that there he could think outbetter what he must do. he lay on the grass, in the shade, and lithis pipe. for economy's sake he had for a long timeconfined himself to two pipes a day; he was thankful now that his pouch was full. he did not know what people did when theyhad no money. presently he fell asleep. when he awoke it was nearly mid-day, and hethought that soon he must be setting out

for london so as to be there in the earlymorning and answer any advertisements which seemed to promise. he thought of his uncle, who had told himthat he would leave him at his death the little he had; philip did not in the leastknow how much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. he wondered whether he could raise money onthe reversion. not without the old man's consent, and thathe would never give. "the only thing i can do is to hang onsomehow till he dies." philip reckoned his age.the vicar of blackstable was well over

seventy. he had chronic bronchitis, but many old menhad that and lived on indefinitely. meanwhile something must turn up; philipcould not get away from the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal;people in his particular station did not starve. it was because he could not bring himselfto believe in the reality of his experience that he did not give way to utter despair.he made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from lawson. he stayed in the garden all day and smokedwhen he felt very hungry; he did not mean

to eat anything until he was setting outagain for london: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. he started when the day began to growcooler, and slept on benches when he was tired.no one disturbed him. he had a wash and brush up, and a shave atvictoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating this read theadvertisement columns of the morning paper. as he looked down them his eye fell upon anannouncement asking for a salesman in the 'furnishing drapery' department of somewell-known stores. he had a curious little sinking of theheart, for with his middle-class prejudices

it seemed dreadful to go into a shop; buthe shrugged his shoulders, after all what did it matter? and he made up his mind tohave a shot at it. he had a queer feeling that by acceptingevery humiliation, by going out to meet it even, he was forcing the hand of fate. when he presented himself, feeling horriblyshy, in the department at nine o'clock he found that many others were there beforehim. they were of all ages, from boys of sixteento men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most weresilent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a look of hostility.

he heard one man say:"the only thing i look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to give metime to look elsewhere." the man, standing next him, glanced atphilip and asked: "had any experience?""no," said philip. he paused a moment and then made a remark:"even the smaller houses won't see you without appointment after lunch."philip looked at the assistants. some were draping chintzes and cretonnes,and others, his neighbour told him were preparing country orders that had come inby post. at about a quarter past nine the buyerarrived.

he heard one of the men who were waitingsay to another that it was mr. gibbons. he was middle-aged, short and corpulent,with a black beard and dark, greasy hair. he had brisk movements and a clever face. he wore a silk hat and a frock coat, thelapel of which was adorned with a white geranium surrounded by leaves. he went into his office, leaving the dooropen; it was very small and contained only an american roll-desk in the corner, abookcase, and a cupboard. the men standing outside watched himmechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-pot filled withwater.

it was against the rules to wear flowers inbusiness. during the day the department men whowanted to keep in with the governor admired the flower. "i've never seen better," they said, "youdidn't grow it yourself?" "yes i did," he smiled, and a gleam ofpride filled his intelligent eyes. he took off his hat and changed his coat,glanced at the letters and then at the men who were waiting to see him. he made a slight sign with one finger, andthe first in the queue stepped into the office.they filed past him one by one and answered

his questions. he put them very briefly, keeping his eyesfixed on the applicant's face. "age? experience?why did you leave your job?" he listened to the replies withoutexpression. when it came to philip's turn he fanciedthat mr. gibbons stared at him curiously. philip's clothes were neat and tolerablycut. he looked a little different from theothers. "experience?" "i'm afraid i haven't any," said philip."no good."

philip walked out of the office. the ordeal had been so much less painfulthan he expected that he felt no particular disappointment.he could hardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. he had kept the newspaper and now looked atthe advertisements again: a shop in holborn needed a salesman too, and he went there;but when he arrived he found that someone had already been engaged. if he wanted to get anything to eat thatday he must go to lawson's studio before he went out to luncheon, so he made his wayalong the brompton road to yeoman's row.

"i say, i'm rather broke till the end ofthe month," he said as soon as he found an opportunity."i wish you'd lend me half a sovereign, will you?" it was incredible the difficulty he foundin asking for money; and he remembered the casual way, as though almost they wereconferring a favour, men at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him whichthey had no intention of repaying. "like a shot," said lawson.but when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight shillings. philip's heart sank."oh well, lend me five bob, will you?" he

said lightly."here you are." philip went to the public baths inwestminster and spent sixpence on a bath. then he got himself something to eat.he did not know what to do with himself in the afternoon. he would not go back to the hospital incase anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do there now;they would wonder in the two or three departments he had worked in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose,it did not matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out withoutwarning.

he went to the free library, and looked atthe papers till they wearied him, then he took out stevenson's new arabian nights;but he found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continued tobrood over his helplessness. he kept on thinking the same things all thetime, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache. at last, craving for fresh air, he wentinto the green park and lay down on the grass. he thought miserably of his deformity,which made it impossible for him to go to the war.

he went to sleep and dreamt that he wassuddenly sound of foot and out at the cape in a regiment of yeomanry; the pictures hehad looked at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy; and he saw himself on the veldt, in khaki, sittingwith other men round a fire at night. when he awoke he found that it was stillquite light, and presently he heard big ben strike seven. he had twelve hours to get through withnothing to do. he dreaded the interminable night. the sky was overcast and he feared it wouldrain; he would have to go to a lodging-

house where he could get a bed; he had seenthem advertised on lamps outside houses in lambeth: good beds sixpence; he had never been inside one, and dreaded the foul smelland the vermin. he made up his mind to stay in the open airif he possibly could. he remained in the park till it was closedand then began to walk about. he was very tired. the thought came to him that an accidentwould be a piece of luck, so that he could be taken to a hospital and lie there, in aclean bed, for weeks. at midnight he was so hungry that he couldnot go without food any more, so he went to

a coffee stall at hyde park corner and atea couple of potatoes and had a cup of coffee. then he walked again.he felt too restless to sleep, and he had a horrible dread of being moved on by thepolice. he noted that he was beginning to look uponthe constable from quite a new angle. this was the third night he had spent out. now and then he sat on the benches inpiccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to the embankment. he listened to the striking of big ben,marking every quarter of an hour, and

reckoned out how long it left till the citywoke again. in the morning he spent a few coppers onmaking himself neat and clean, bought a paper to read the advertisements, and setout once more on the search for work. he went on in this way for several days. he had very little food and began to feelweak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on looking for the work whichseemed so desperately hard to find. he was growing used now to the long waitingat the back of a shop on the chance that he would be taken on, and the curt dismissal. he walked to all parts of london in answerto the advertisements, and he came to know

by sight men who applied as fruitlessly ashimself. one or two tried to make friends with him,but he was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances.he did not go any more to lawson, because he owed him five shillings. he began to be too dazed to think clearlyand ceased very much to care what would happen to him.he cried a good deal. at first he was very angry with himself forthis and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel less hungry.in the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold.

one night he went into his room to changehis linen; he slipped in about three, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep,and out again at five; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones ached, and as he lay he revelled inthe pleasure of it; it was so delicious that he did not want to go to sleep.he was growing used to want of food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. constantly now at the back of his mind wasthe thought of doing away with himself, but he used all the strength he had not todwell on it, because he was afraid the temptation would get hold of him so that hewould not be able to help himself.

he kept on saying to himself that it wouldbe absurd to commit suicide, since something must happen soon; he could notget over the impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite seriously; it was like an illness whichmust be endured but from which he was bound to recover. every night he swore that nothing wouldinduce him to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to hisuncle, or to mr. nixon, the solicitor, or to lawson; but when the time came he could not bring himself to make the humiliatingconfession of his utter failure.

he did not know how lawson would take it. in their friendship lawson had beenscatter-brained and he had prided himself on his common sense.he would have to tell the whole history of his folly. he had an uneasy feeling that lawson, afterhelping him, would turn the cold shoulder on him. his uncle and the solicitor would of coursedo something for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. he did not want anyone to reproach him: heclenched his teeth and repeated that what

had happened was inevitable just because ithad happened. regret was absurd. the days were unending, and the fiveshillings lawson had lent him would not last much longer.philip longed for sunday to come so that he could go to athelny's. he did not know what prevented him fromgoing there sooner, except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own;for athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person who could doanything for him. perhaps after dinner he could bring himselfto tell athelny that he was in

difficulties. philip repeated to himself over and overagain what he should say to him. he was dreadfully afraid that athelny wouldput him off with airy phrases: that would be so horrible that he wanted to delay aslong as possible the putting of him to the test. philip had lost all confidence in hisfellows. saturday night was cold and raw.philip suffered horribly. from midday on saturday till he draggedhimself wearily to athelny's house he ate nothing.

he spent his last twopence on sundaymorning on a wash and a brush up in the lavatory at charing cross. chapter ci when philip rang a head was put out of thewindow, and in a minute he heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children randown to let him in. it was a pale, anxious, thin face that hebent down for them to kiss. he was so moved by their exuberantaffection that, to give himself time to recover, he made excuses to linger on thestairs. he was in a hysterical state and almostanything was enough to make him cry.

they asked him why he had not come on theprevious sunday, and he told them he had been ill; they wanted to know what was thematter with him; and philip, to amuse them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which, double-barrelled and barbarous withits mixture of greek and latin (medical nomenclature bristled with such), made themshriek with delight. they dragged philip into the parlour andmade him repeat it for their father's edification.athelny got up and shook hands with him. he stared at philip, but with his round,bulging eyes he always seemed to stare, philip did not know why on this occasion itmade him self-conscious.

"we missed you last sunday," he said. philip could never tell lies withoutembarrassment, and he was scarlet when he finished his explanation for not coming.then mrs. athelny entered and shook hands with him. "i hope you're better, mr. carey," shesaid. he did not know why she imagined thatanything had been the matter with him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came upwith the children, and they had not left "dinner won't be ready for another tenminutes," she said, in her slow drawl. "won't you have an egg beaten up in a glassof milk while you're waiting?"

there was a look of concern on her facewhich made philip uncomfortable. he forced a laugh and answered that he wasnot at all hungry. sally came in to lay the table, and philipbegan to chaff her. it was the family joke that she would be asfat as an aunt of mrs. athelny, called aunt elizabeth, whom the children had never seenbut regarded as the type of obscene corpulence. "i say, what has happened since i saw youlast, sally?" philip began."nothing that i know of." "i believe you've been putting on weight."

"i'm sure you haven't," she retorted."you're a perfect skeleton." philip reddened."that's a tu quoque, sally," cried her father. "you will be fined one golden hair of yourhead. jane, fetch the shears.""well, he is thin, father," remonstrated sally. "he's just skin and bone.""that's not the question, child. he is at perfect liberty to be thin, butyour obesity is contrary to decorum." as he spoke he put his arm proudly roundher waist and looked at her with admiring

eyes."let me get on with the table, father. if i am comfortable there are some whodon't seem to mind it." "the hussy!" cried athelny, with a dramaticwave of the hand. "she taunts me with the notorious fact thatjoseph, a son of levi who sells jewels in holborn, has made her an offer ofmarriage." "have you accepted him, sally?" askedphilip. "don't you know father better than that bythis time? there's not a word of truth in it." "well, if he hasn't made you an offer ofmarriage," cried athelny, "by saint george

and merry england, i will seize him by thenose and demand of him immediately what are his intentions." "sit down, father, dinner's ready. now then, you children, get along with youand wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk it, because i mean to look at thembefore you have a scrap of dinner, so there." philip thought he was ravenous till hebegan to eat, but then discovered that his stomach turned against food, and he couldeat hardly at all. his brain was weary; and he did not noticethat athelny, contrary to his habit, spoke

very little. philip was relieved to be sitting in acomfortable house, but every now and then he could not prevent himself from glancingout of the window. the day was tempestuous. the fine weather had broken; and it wascold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again gusts of rain drove against thewindow. philip wondered what he should do thatnight. the athelnys went to bed early, and hecould not stay where he was after ten o'clock.

his heart sank at the thought of going outinto the bleak darkness. it seemed more terrible now that he waswith his friends than when he was outside and alone. he kept on saying to himself that therewere plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. he strove to distract his mind by talking,but in the middle of his words a spatter of rain against the window would make himstart. "it's like march weather," said athelny. "not the sort of day one would like to becrossing the channel."

presently they finished, and sally came inand cleared away. "would you like a twopenny stinker?" saidathelny, handing him a cigar. philip took it and inhaled the smoke withdelight. it soothed him extraordinarily. when sally had finished athelny told her toshut the door after her. "now we shan't be disturbed," he said,turning to philip. "i've arranged with betty not to let thechildren come in till i call them." philip gave him a startled look, but beforehe could take in the meaning of his words, athelny, fixing his glasses on his nosewith the gesture habitual to him, went on.

"i wrote to you last sunday to ask ifanything was the matter with you, and as you didn't answer i went to your rooms onwednesday." philip turned his head away and did notanswer. his heart began to beat violently.athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed intolerable to philip. he could not think of a single word to say."your landlady told me you hadn't been in since saturday night, and she said you owedher for the last month. where have you been sleeping all thisweek?" it made philip sick to answer.he stared out of the window.

"nowhere." "i tried to find you.""why?" asked philip. "betty and i have been just as broke in ourday, only we had babies to look after. why didn't you come here?" "i couldn't."philip was afraid he was going to cry. he felt very weak.he shut his eyes and frowned, trying to control himself. he felt a sudden flash of anger withathelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was broken; and presently,his eyes still closed, slowly in order to

keep his voice steady, he told him the story of his adventures during the last fewweeks. as he spoke it seemed to him that he hadbehaved inanely, and it made it still harder to tell. he felt that athelny would think him anutter fool. "now you're coming to live with us till youfind something to do," said athelny, when he had finished. philip flushed, he knew not why."oh, it's awfully kind of you, but i don't think i'll do that.""why not?"

philip did not answer. he had refused instinctively from fear thathe would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting favours. he knew besides that the athelnys livedfrom hand to mouth, and with their large family had neither space nor money toentertain a stranger. "of course you must come here," saidathelny. "thorpe will tuck in with one of hisbrothers and you can sleep in his bed. you don't suppose your food's going to makeany difference to us." philip was afraid to speak, and athelny,going to the door, called his wife.

"betty," he said, when she came in, "mr.carey's coming to live with us." "oh, that is nice," she said."i'll go and get the bed ready." she spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone,taking everything for granted, that philip was deeply touched. he never expected people to be kind to him,and when they were it surprised and moved him.now he could not prevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. the athelnys discussed the arrangements andpretended not to notice to what a state his weakness had brought him.

when mrs. athelny left them philip leanedback in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little."it's not a very nice night to be out, is it?" chapter cii athelny told philip that he could easilyget him something to do in the large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. several of the assistants had gone to thewar, and lynn and sedley with patriotic zeal had promised to keep their places openfor them. they put the work of the heroes on thosewho remained, and since they did not

increase the wages of these were able atonce to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy; but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays werecoming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time: they were boundto engage more assistants. philip's experience had made him doubtfulwhether even then they would engage him; but athelny, representing himself as aperson of consequence in the firm, insisted that the manager could refuse him nothing. philip, with his training in paris, wouldbe very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was bound to get awell-paid job to design costumes and draw

posters. philip made a poster for the summer saleand athelny took it away. two days later he brought it back, sayingthat the manager admired it very much and regretted with all his heart that there wasno vacancy just then in that department. philip asked whether there was nothing elsehe could do. "i'm afraid not.""are you quite sure?" "well, the fact is they're advertising fora shop-walker tomorrow," said athelny, looking at him doubtfully through hisglasses. "d'you think i stand any chance of gettingit?"

athelny was a little confused; he had ledphilip to expect something much more splendid; on the other hand he was too poorto go on providing him indefinitely with board and lodging. "you might take it while you wait forsomething better. you always stand a better chance if you'reengaged by the firm already." "i'm not proud, you know," smiled philip. "if you decide on that you must be there ata quarter to nine tomorrow morning." notwithstanding the war there was evidentlymuch difficulty in finding work, for when philip went to the shop many men werewaiting already.

he recognised some whom he had seen in hisown searching, and there was one whom he had noticed lying about the park in theafternoon. to philip now that suggested that he was ashomeless as himself and passed the night out of doors. the men were of all sorts, old and young,tall and short; but every one had tried to make himself smart for the interview withthe manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands. they waited in a passage which philiplearnt afterwards led up to the dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every fewyards by five or six steps.

though there was electric light in the shophere was only gas, with wire cages over it for protection, and it flared noisily. philip arrived punctually, but it wasnearly ten o'clock when he was admitted into the office. it was three-cornered, like a cut of cheeselying on its side: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and twoposter-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large stripes, and the other of a ship in full sail ploughing anazure sea: on the sail was printed in large letters 'great white sale.'

the widest side of the office was the backof one of the shop-windows, which was being dressed at the time, and an assistant wentto and fro during the interview. the manager was reading a letter. he was a florid man, with sandy hair and alarge sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung a bunch of footballmedals. he sat in his shirt sleeves at a large deskwith a telephone by his side; before him were the day's advertisements, athelny'swork, and cuttings from newspapers pasted on a card. he gave philip a glance but did not speakto him; he dictated a letter to the typist,

a girl who sat at a small table in onecorner; then he asked philip his name, age, and what experience he had had. he spoke with a cockney twang in a high,metallic voice which he seemed not able always to control; philip noticed that hisupper teeth were large and protruding; they gave you the impression that they were loose and would come out if you gave them asharp tug. "i think mr. athelny has spoken to youabout me," said philip. "oh, you are the young feller who did thatposter?" "yes, sir.""no good to us, you know, not a bit of

good." he looked philip up and down.he seemed to notice that philip was in some way different from the men who had precededhim. "you'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. i suppose you 'aven't got one.you seem a respectable young feller. i suppose you found art didn't pay."philip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. he threw remarks at him in a hostile way."where's your home?" "my father and mother died when i was achild."

"i like to give young fellers a chance. many's the one i've given their chance toand they're managers of departments now. and they're grateful to me, i'll say thatfor them. they know what i done for them. start at the bottom of the ladder, that'sthe only way to learn the business, and then if you stick to it there's no knowingwhat it can lead to. if you suit, one of these days you may findyourself in a position like what mine is. bear that in mind, young feller.""i'm very anxious to do my best, sir," said philip.

he knew that he must put in the sirwhenever he could, but it sounded odd to him, and he was afraid of overdoing it.the manager liked talking. it gave him a happy consciousness of hisown importance, and he did not give philip his decision till he had used a great manywords. "well, i daresay you'll do," he said atlast, in a pompous way. "anyhow i don't mind giving you a trial.""thank you very much, sir." "you can start at once. i'll give you six shillings a week and yourkeep. everything found, you know; the sixshillings is only pocket money, to do what

you like with, paid monthly. start on monday.i suppose you've got no cause of complaint with that.""no, sir." "harrington street, d'you know where thatis, shaftesbury avenue. that's where you sleep.number ten, it is. you can sleep there on sunday night, if youlike; that's just as you please, or you can send your box there on monday."the manager nodded: "good-morning." chapter ciii mrs. athelny lent philip money to pay hislandlady enough of her bill to let him take

his things away. for five shillings and the pawn-ticket on asuit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him fairly well.he redeemed the rest of his clothes. he sent his box to harrington street bycarter patterson and on monday morning went with athelny to the shop.athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes and left him. the buyer was a pleasant, fussy little manof thirty, named sampson; he shook hands with philip, and, in order to show his ownaccomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke french.

he was surprised when philip told him hedid. "any other language?""i speak german." "oh! i go over to paris myselfoccasionally. parlez-vous francais?ever been to maxim's?" philip was stationed at the top of thestairs in the 'costumes.' his work consisted in directing people tothe various departments. there seemed a great many of them as mr.sampson tripped them off his tongue. suddenly he noticed that philip limped."what's the matter with your leg?" he asked.

"i've got a club-foot," said philip."but it doesn't prevent my walking or anything like that." the buyer looked at it for a momentdoubtfully, and philip surmised that he was wondering why the manager had engaged him.philip knew that he had not noticed there was anything the matter with him. "i don't expect you to get them all correctthe first day. if you're in any doubt all you've got to dois to ask one of the young ladies." mr. sampson turned away; and philip, tryingto remember where this or the other department was, watched anxiously for thecustomer in search of information.

at one o'clock he went up to dinner. the dining-room, on the top floor of thevast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the windows were shut to keepout the dust, and there was a horrid smell of cooking. there were long tables covered with cloths,with big glass bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellarsand bottles of vinegar. the assistants crowded in noisily, and satdown on forms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty."no pickles," remarked the man next to he was a tall thin young man, with a hookednose and a pasty face; he had a long head,

unevenly shaped as though the skull hadbeen pushed in here and there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spotsred and inflamed. his name was harris. philip discovered that on some days therewere large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles.they were very popular. there were no knives and forks, but in aminute a large fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them andthrew them loudly on the middle of the table. each man took what he wanted; they werewarm and greasy from recent washing in

dirty water. plates of meat swimming in gravy werehanded round by boys in white jackets, and as they flung each plate down with thequick gesture of a prestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. then they brought large dishes of cabbagesand potatoes; the sight of them turned philip's stomach; he noticed that everyonepoured quantities of vinegar over them. the noise was awful. they talked and laughed and shouted, andthere was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating.philip was glad to get back into the

department. he was beginning to remember where each onewas, and had less often to ask one of the assistants, when somebody wanted to knowthe way. "first to the right. second on the left, madam."one or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack, and he feltthey were taking his measure. at five he was sent up again to the dining-room for tea. he was glad to sit down. there were large slices of bread heavilyspread with butter; and many had pots of

jam, which were kept in the 'store' and hadtheir names written on. philip was exhausted when work stopped athalf past six. harris, the man he had sat next to atdinner, offered to take him over to harrington street to show him where he wasto sleep. he told philip there was a spare bed in hisroom, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected philip would be put there. the house in harrington street had been abootmaker's; and the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since thewindow had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only ventilationcame from a small skylight at the far end.

there was a musty smell, and philip wasthankful that he would not have to sleep there. harris took him up to the sitting-room,which was on the first floor; it had an old piano in it with a keyboard that lookedlike a row of decayed teeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of dominoes; old numbers of the strandmagazine and of the graphic were lying about.the other rooms were used as bed-rooms. that in which philip was to sleep was atthe top of the house. there were six beds in it, and a trunk or abox stood by the side of each.

the only furniture was a chest of drawers:it had four large drawers and two small ones, and philip as the new-comer had oneof these; there were keys to them, but as they were all alike they were not of much use, and harris advised him to keep hisvaluables in his trunk. there was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece. harris showed philip the lavatory, whichwas a fairly large room with eight basins in a row, and here all the inmates didtheir washing. it led into another room in which were twobaths, discoloured, the woodwork stained with soap; and in them were dark rings atvarious intervals which indicated the water

marks of different baths. when harris and philip went back to theirbed-room they found a tall man changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling asloud as he could while he brushed his hair. in a minute or two without saying a word toanybody the tall man went out. harris winked at the boy, and the boy,whistling still, winked back. harris told philip that the man was calledprior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty much tohimself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so much as a good-evening, to see his girl. harris went out too, and only the boyremained to watch philip curiously while he

unpacked his things. his name was bell and he was serving histime for nothing in the haberdashery. he was much interested in philip's eveningclothes. he told him about the other men in the roomand asked him every sort of question about he was a cheerful youth, and in theintervals of conversation sang in a half- broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. when philip had finished he went out towalk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside thedoors of restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry, so he bought a

bath bun and ate it while he strolledalong. he had been given a latch-key by theprefect, the man who turned out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of beinglocked out he returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had to pay a shilling if you came in aftereleven, and half a crown after a quarter past, and you were reported besides: if ithappened three times you were dismissed. all but the soldier were in when philiparrived and two were already in bed. philip was greeted with cries."oh, clarence! naughty boy!"

he discovered that bell had dressed up thebolster in his evening clothes. the boy was delighted with his joke."you must wear them at the social evening, clarence." "he'll catch the belle of lynn's, if he'snot careful." philip had already heard of the socialevenings, for the money stopped from the wages to pay for them was one of thegrievances of the staff. it was only two shillings a month, and itcovered medical attendance and the use of a library of worn novels; but as fourshillings a month besides was stopped for washing, philip discovered that a quarter

of his six shillings a week would never bepaid to him. most of the men were eating thick slices offat bacon between a roll of bread cut in two. these sandwiches, the assistants' usualsupper, were supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. the soldier rolled in; silently, rapidly,took off his clothes and threw himself into bed.at ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes later went out. the soldier went to sleep, but the otherscrowded round the big window in their

pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwingremains of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted tothem facetious remarks. the house opposite, six storeys high, was aworkshop for jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were brightly litand there were no blinds to the windows. the sweater's daughter--the familyconsisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a girl of twenty--went round thehouse to put out the lights when work was over, and sometimes she allowed herself tobe made love to by one of the tailors. the shop assistants in philip's room got alot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to staybehind, and they made small bets on which

would succeed. at midnight the people were turned out ofthe harrington arms at the end of the street, and soon after they all went tobed: bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his ownwould not stop talking. at last everything was silent but for thesteady snoring of the soldier, and philip went to sleep. he was awaked at seven by the loud ringingof a bell, and by a quarter to eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs intheir stockinged feet to pick out their

boots. they laced them as they ran along to theshop in oxford street for breakfast. if they were a minute later than eight theygot none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves anything to eat. sometimes, if they knew they could not getinto the building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters andbought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food tilldinner. philip ate some bread and butter, drank acup of tea, and at half past eight began his day's work again.

"first to the right.second on the left, madam." soon he began to answer the questions quitemechanically. the work was monotonous and very tiring. after a few days his feet hurt him so thathe could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night hissocks were painful to remove. it was a common complaint, and his fellow'floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the continualsweating. all the men in his room suffered in thesame fashion, and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the bed-clothes.

at first philip could not walk at all andwas obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at harringtonstreet with his feet in a pail of cold water. his companion on these occasions was bell,the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the stamps he collected.as he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper he whistled monotonously. chapter civ the social evenings took place on alternatemondays. there was one at the beginning of philip'ssecond week at lynn's.

he arranged to go with one of the women inhis department. "meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as ido." this was mrs. hodges, a little woman offive-and-forty, with badly dyed hair; she had a yellow face with a network of smallred veins all over it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. she took a fancy to philip and called himby his christian name before he had been in the shop a week."we've both known what it is to come down," she said. she told philip that her real name was nothodges, but she always referred to "me

'usband misterodges;" he was a barristerand he treated her simply shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she had known what it was todrive in her own carriage, dear--she called everyone dear--and they always had latedinner at home. she used to pick her teeth with the pin ofan enormous silver brooch. it was in the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. philip was ill at ease in his newsurroundings, and the girls in the shop called him 'sidey.' one addressed him as phil, and he did notanswer because he had not the least idea

that she was speaking to him; so she tossedher head, saying he was a 'stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical emphasis calledhim mister carey. she was a miss jewell, and she was going tomarry a doctor. the other girls had never seen him, butthey said he must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents."never you mind what they say, dear," said mrs. hodges. "i've 'ad to go through it same as you'ave. they don't know any better, poor things. you take my word for it, they'll like youall right if you 'old your own same as i

'ave."the social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. the tables were put on one side so thatthere might be room for dancing, and smaller ones were set out for progressivewhist. "the 'eads 'ave to get there early," saidmrs. hodges. she introduced him to miss bennett, who wasthe belle of lynn's. she was the buyer in the 'petticoats,' andwhen philip entered was engaged in conversation with the buyer in the'gentlemen's hosiery;' miss bennett was a woman of massive proportions, with a very

large red face heavily powdered and a bustof imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged with elaboration. she was overdressed, but not badly dressed,in black with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which she playedcards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles on her wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being ofqueen alexandra; she carried a black satin bag and chewed sen-sens."please to meet you, mr. carey," she said. "this is your first visit to our socialevenings, ain't it? i expect you feel a bit shy, but there's nocause to, i promise you that."

she did her best to make people feel athome. she slapped them on the shoulders andlaughed a great deal. "ain't i a pickle?" she cried, turning tophilip. "what must you think of me?but i can't 'elp meself." those who were going to take part in thesocial evening came in, the younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girlsof their own, and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. several of the young gentlemen wore loungesuits with white evening ties and red silk handkerchiefs; they were going to perform,and they had a busy, abstracted air; some

were self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched their public withan anxious eye. presently a girl with a great deal of hairsat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the keyboard. when the audience had settled itself shelooked round and gave the name of her piece."a drive in russia." there was a round of clapping during whichshe deftly fixed bells to her wrists. she smiled a little and immediately burstinto energetic melody. there was a great deal more clapping whenshe finished, and when this was over, as an

encore, she gave a piece which imitated thesea; there were little trills to represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with the loud pedal down, to suggest astorm. after this a gentleman sang a song calledbid me good-bye, and as an encore obliged with sing me to sleep. the audience measured their enthusiasm witha nice discrimination. everyone was applauded till he gave anencore, and so that there might be no jealousy no one was applauded more thananyone else. miss bennett sailed up to philip.

"i'm sure you play or sing, mr. carey," shesaid archly. "i can see it in your face.""i'm afraid i don't." "don't you even recite?" "i have no parlour tricks."the buyer in the 'gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter, and he was calledupon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his department. needing no pressing, he gave a long poem oftragic character, in which he rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and actedas though he were in great agony. the point, that he had eaten cucumber forsupper, was divulged in the last line and

was greeted with laughter, a little forcedbecause everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. miss bennett did not sing, play, or recite."oh no, she 'as a little game of her own," said mrs. hodges."now, don't you begin chaffing me. the fact is i know quite a lot aboutpalmistry and second sight." "oh, do tell my 'and, miss bennett," criedthe girls in her department, eager to please her. "i don't like telling 'ands, i don'treally. i've told people such terrible things andthey've all come true, it makes one

superstitious like." "oh, miss bennett, just for once." a little crowd collected round her, and,amid screams of embarrassment, giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay oradmiration, she talked mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of journeys, till the sweat stood in heavybeads on her painted face. "look at me," she said."i'm all of a perspiration." supper was at nine. there were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea andcoffee, all free; but if you wanted mineral

water you had to pay for it. gallantry often led young men to offer theladies ginger beer, but common decency made them refuse. miss bennett was very fond of ginger beer,and she drank two and sometimes three bottles during the evening; but sheinsisted on paying for them herself. the men liked her for that. "she's a rum old bird," they said, "butmind you, she's not a bad sort, she's not like what some are."after supper progressive whist was played. this was very noisy, and there was a greatdeal of laughing and shouting, as people

moved from table to table.miss bennett grew hotter and hotter. "look at me," she said. "i'm all of a perspiration."in due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if they wantedto dance they'd better begin. the girl who had played the accompanimentssat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud pedal. she played a dreamy waltz, marking the timewith the bass, while with the right hand she 'tiddled' in alternate octaves.by way of a change she crossed her hands and played the air in the bass.

"she does play well, doesn't she?"mrs. hodges remarked to philip. "and what's more she's never 'ad a lessonin 'er life; it's all ear." miss bennett liked dancing and poetrybetter than anything in the world. she danced well, but very, very slowly, andan expression came into her eyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. she talked breathlessly of the floor andthe heat and the supper. she said that the portman rooms had thebest floor in london and she always liked the dances there; they were very select,and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you didn't know anything

about; why, you might be exposing yourselfto you didn't know what all. nearly all the people danced very well, andthey enjoyed themselves. sweat poured down their faces, and the veryhigh collars of the young men grew limp. philip looked on, and a greater depressionseized him than he remembered to have felt for a long time. he felt intolerably alone.he did not go, because he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked with thegirls and laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. miss bennett asked him if he had a girl."no," he smiled.

"oh, well, there's plenty to choose fromhere. and they're very nice respectable girls,some of them. i expect you'll have a girl before you'vebeen here long." she looked at him very archly. "meet 'em 'alf-way," said mrs. hodges."that's what i tell him." it was nearly eleven o'clock, and the partybroke up. philip could not get to sleep. like the others he kept his aching feetoutside the bed-clothes. he tried with all his might not to think ofthe life he was leading.

the soldier was snoring quietly.

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