Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End till he found some house at which there was a party.  He stood among the little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window.  Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street with a heavy hurt.  He would never be able to stand in that man’s place.  He felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for his deformity.

That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson.  He thought of her without satisfaction.  Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her.  She wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French.  Philip wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left him cold.  She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy.  He did not quite know how to start the letter.  He could not bring himself to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with the word dear.  It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he made it do.  It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his office.  The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful:  how could he be so cold?  Did he not know that she hung on his letters?  She had given him all that a woman could give, and this was her reward.  Was he tired of her already?  Then, because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters.  She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it:  if he did not love her why did he not say so?  She added that she could not live without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide.  She told him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful.  It was all in French, and Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried all the same.  He did not want to make her unhappy.  In a little while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would arrange to come