Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some `drops’ which she was herself in the habit of using.  Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie down.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you’ll want?” asked Mrs. Carey anxiously.

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“Because, if there isn’t, I think I’ll go to church.  I don’t often have the chance of going in the evening.”

“Oh yes, do go.”

“I shall be in,” said Philip.  “If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can always call me.”

“You’d better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss Wilkinson rings, you’ll hear.”

“Certainly,” said Philip.

So after six o’clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss Wilkinson.  He felt sick with apprehension.  He wished with all his heart that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take the opportunity which he had made.  What would Miss Wilkinson think of him if he did not!  He went into the hall and listened.  There was not a sound.  He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache.  Perhaps she had forgotten his suggestion.  His heart beat painfully.  He crept up the stairs as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked.  He stood outside Miss Wilkinson’s room and listened; he put his hand on the knob of the door-handle.  He waited.  It seemed to him that he waited for at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled.  He would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he knew would seize him.  It was like getting on the highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you had climbed up.  Philip screwed up his courage.  He turned the handle softly and walked in.  He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.

Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open.

“Oh, it’s you.  What d’you want?”

She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat.  It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce.  She wore a camisole of white calico with short arms.  She looked grotesque.  Philip’s heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so unattractive; but it was too late now.  He closed the door behind him and locked it.

XXXV