Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek.  He did not know why the sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed.  It was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him humbly all the same.

“You will take the money, Philip?” she said, gently stroking his hand.  “I know you can do without it, but it’ll give me so much happiness.  I’ve always wanted to do something for you.  You see, I never had a child of my own, and I’ve loved you as if you were my son.  When you were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that I could nurse you day and night.  But you were only ill once and then it was at school.  I should so like to help you.  It’s the only chance I shall ever have.  And perhaps some day when you’re a great artist you won’t forget me, but you’ll remember that I gave you your start.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Philip.  “I’m very grateful.”  A smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.

“Oh, I’m so glad.”

XL

A few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to see Philip off.  She stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears.  Philip was restless and eager.  He wanted to be gone.

“Kiss me once more,” she said.

He leaned out of the window and kissed her.  The train started, and she stood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her handkerchief till it was out of sight.  Her heart was dreadfully heavy, and the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long.  It was natural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and the future beckoned to him; but she—­she clenched her teeth so that she should not cry.  She uttered a little inward prayer that God would guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and good fortune.

But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in his carriage.  He thought only of the future.  He had written to Mrs. Otter, the massiere to whom Hayward had given him an introduction, and had in his pocket an invitation to tea on the following day.  When he arrived in Paris he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin Quarter.  He had taken a room at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which was in a shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient for Amitrano’s School at which he was going to work.  A waiter took his box up five flights of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater part of which was taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is connected with the good King Louis Philippe.  The wall-paper was discoloured with age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on it garlands of brown leaves.  To Philip the room seemed quaint and charming.