The following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip kept her to himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank champagne at dinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so long that she enjoyed everything ingenuously. She cuddled up to Philip when they drove from the theatre to the room he had taken for her in Pimlico.
‘I really believe you’re quite glad to see me,’ he said.
She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations of affection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted.
‘I’ve asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow,’ he told her.
‘Oh, I’m glad you’ve done that. I wanted to meet him.’
There was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday night, and Philip was afraid she would be bored if she were alone with him all day. Griffiths was amusing; he would help them to get through the evening; and Philip was so fond of them both that he wanted them to know and to like one another. He left Mildred with the words:
‘Only six days more.’
They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano’s on Sunday, because the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a good deal more than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and had to wait some time for Griffiths.
‘He’s an unpunctual devil,’ said Philip. ‘He’s probably making love to one of his numerous flames.’
But presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and thin; his head was placed well on the body, it gave him a conquering air which was attractive; and his curly hair, his bold, friendly blue eyes, his red mouth, were charming. Philip saw Mildred look at him with appreciation, and he felt a curious satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you,’ he said to Mildred, as he took her hand.
‘Not so much as I’ve heard about you,’ she answered.
‘Nor so bad,’ said. Philip.
‘Has he been blackening my character?’
Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white and regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.
‘You ought to feel like old friends,’ said Philip. ‘I’ve talked so much about you to one another.’
Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of London. He was taking up his duties at the beginning of May and meanwhile was going home for a holiday; this was his last week in town, and he was determined to get as much enjoyment into it as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which Philip admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from him a force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost as sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively than Philip had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that his little party was a success. She was amusing herself enormously. She laughed louder and louder. She quite forgot the genteel reserve which had become second nature to her.
Presently Griffiths said:
‘I say, it’s dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller. Philip never calls you anything but Mildred.’
‘I daresay she won’t scratch your eyes out if you call her that too,’ laughed Philip.
‘Then she must call me Harry.’
Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a little, kindly, because he was always so serious.
‘I believe he’s quite fond of you, Philip,’ smiled Mildred.
‘He isn’t a bad old thing,’ answered Griffiths, and taking Philip’s hand he shook it gaily.
It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads. Griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet. He had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration. He played in all of them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote. When the lights began to be turned out she was astonished.
‘My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn’t more than half past nine.’
They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:
‘I’m coming to have tea at Philip’s room tomorrow. You might look in if you can.’
‘All right,’ he smiled.
On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but Griffiths. She was taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his gaiety.
‘I am glad you like him,’ said Philip. ‘D’you remember you were rather sniffy about meeting him?’
‘I think it’s so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is a nice friend for you to have.’
She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a thing she did rarely.
‘I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t be so absurd,’ he laughed, touched by her appreciation so that he felt the moisture come to his eyes.
She opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to Philip.
‘Tell Harry I’m madly in love with him,’ she said.
‘All right,’ he laughed. ‘Good-night.’
Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank lazily into an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual in the slow movements of his large limbs. Philip remained silent, while the others chattered away, but he was enjoying himself. He admired them both so much that it seemed natural enough for them to admire one another. He did not care if Griffiths absorbed Mildred’s attention, he would have her to himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of a loving husband, confident in his wife’s affection, who looks on with amusement while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. But at half past seven he looked at his watch and said:
‘It’s about time we went out to dinner, Mildred.’
There was a moment’s pause, and Griffiths seemed to be considering.
‘Well, I’ll be getting along,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t know it was so late.’
‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ asked Mildred.
‘No.’
There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.
‘I’ll just go and have a wash,’ he said, and to Mildred he added: ‘Would you like to wash your hands?’
She did not answer him.
‘Why don’t you come and dine with us?’ she said to Griffiths.
He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.
‘I dined with you last night,’ he laughed. ‘I should be in the way.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ insisted Mildred. ‘Make him come, Philip. He won’t be in the way, will he?’
‘Let him come by all means if he’d like to.’
‘All right, then,’ said Griffiths promptly. ‘I’ll just go upstairs and tidy myself.’
The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.
‘Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?’
‘I couldn’t help myself. It would have looked so funny to say nothing when he said he wasn’t doing anything.’
‘Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing anything?’
Mildred’s pale lips tightened a little.
‘I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being alone with you.’
They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip went into his bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood in an Italian restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he quickly realised that he was showing to disadvantage in comparison with Griffiths, and he forced himself to hide his annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the pain that was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred, as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to make herself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate. Presently Philip began to think he had been a fool to surrender to a feeling of jealousy. After dinner when they got into a hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred, sitting between the two men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His anger vanished. Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that Griffiths was holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently, it was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he might have asked himself before, whether Mildred and Griffiths were in love with one another. He could not see anything of the performance on account of the mist of suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which seemed to be before his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact that anything was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a strange desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he wanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had never been alone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them by themselves.
‘I’ll come too,’ said Griffiths. ‘I’ve got rather a thirst on.’
‘Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred.’
Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them together now to make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He did not go to the bar, but up into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be seen. They had ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one another’s eyes. Griffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to hang on his lips. Philip’s head began to ache frightfully. He stood there motionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went back. They were enjoying themselves without him, and he was suffering, suffering. Time passed, and now he had an extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He knew they had not thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he had paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a fool they were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could see how happy they were without him. His instinct was to leave them to themselves and go home, but he had not his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless explanations. He went back. He felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred’s eyes when she saw him, and his heart sank.
‘You’ve been a devil of a time,’ said Griffiths, with a smile of welcome.
‘I met some men I knew. I’ve been talking to them, and I couldn’t get away. I thought you’d be all right together.’
‘I’ve been enjoying myself thoroughly,’ said Griffiths. ‘I don’t know about Mildred.’
She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar sound in the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that they should go.
‘Come on,’ said Griffiths, ‘we’ll both drive you home.’
Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she might not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take her hand nor did she offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding Griffiths’. His chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar. As they drove along he asked himself what plans they had made to meet without his knowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he had actually gone out of his way to enable them to arrange things.
‘Let’s keep the cab,’ said Philip, when they reached the house in which Mildred was lodging. ‘I’m too tired to walk home.’
On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice that something was the matter. Philip’s silence at last grew too significant to struggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip wanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself to, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. It was best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to speak.
‘Are you in love with Mildred?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I?’ Griffiths laughed. ‘Is that what you’ve been so funny about this evening? Of course not, my dear old man.’
He tried to slip his hand through Philip’s arm, but Philip drew himself away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force Griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl’s hand. He suddenly felt very weak and broken.
‘It doesn’t matter to you, Harry,’ he said. ‘You’ve got so many women—don’t take her away from me. It means my whole life. I’ve been so awfully wretched.’
His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him. He was horribly ashamed of himself.
‘My dear old boy, you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I’m far too fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I’d known you were going to take it like that I’d have been more careful.’
‘Is that true?’ asked Philip.
‘I don’t care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of honour.’
Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.