XXXVI

A few days later Philip went to London.  The curate had recommended rooms in Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter at fourteen shillings a week.  He reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a funny little old woman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high tea for him.  Most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a square table; against one wall was a sofa covered with horsehair, and by the fireplace an arm-chair to match:  there was a white antimacassar over the back of it, and on the seat, because the springs were broken, a hard cushion.

After having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat down and tried to read; but he was depressed.  The silence in the street made him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone.

Next day he got up early.  He put on his tail-coat and the tall hat which he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his mind to stop at the Stores on his way to the office and buy a new one.  When he had done this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked along the Strand.  The office of Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a little street off Chancery Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times.  He felt that people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off his hat to see whether by chance the label had been left on.  When he arrived he knocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he supposed he was too early.  He went away and ten minutes later returned to find an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face, and a Scotch accent, opening the door.  Philip asked for Mr. Herbert Carter.  He had not come yet.

“When will he be here?”

“Between ten and half past.”

“I’d better wait,” said Philip.

“What are you wanting?” asked the office-boy.

Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner.

“Well, I’m going to work here if you have no objection.”

“Oh, you’re the new articled clerk?  You’d better come in.  Mr. Goodworthy’ll be here in a while.”

Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy—­he was about the same age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk—­look at his foot.  He flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other.  He looked round the room.  It was dark and very dingy.  It was lit by a skylight.  There were three rows of desks in it and against them high stools.  Over the chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight.  Presently a clerk came in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone asked the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was.  A whistle blew, and Macdougal got up.

“Mr. Goodworthy’s come.  He’s the managing clerk.  Shall I tell him you’re here?”

“Yes, please,” said Philip.