The medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age with some chance of making a living.  Among the men of Philip’s year were three or four who were past their first youth:  one had been in the Navy, from which according to report he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he was a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice.  Another was a married man with two children, who had lost money through a defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were too much for him; he went about his work silently, and it was plain that he found it difficult at his age to commit facts to memory.  His mind worked slowly.  His effort at application was painful to see.

Philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms.  He arranged his books and hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed.  Above him, on the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called Griffiths; but Philip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied chiefly in the wards and partly because he had been to Oxford.  Such of the students as had been to a university kept a good deal together:  they used a variety of means natural to the young in order to impress upon the less fortunate a proper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the students found their Olympian serenity rather hard to bear.  Griffiths was a tall fellow, with a quantity of curly red hair and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red mouth; he was one of those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he had high spirits and a constant gaiety.  He strummed a little on the piano and sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening, while Philip was reading in his solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious laughter of Griffiths’ friends above him.  He thought of those delightful evenings in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, Flanagan and Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present, and the fame of the future.  He felt sick at heart.  He found that it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results.  The worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious.  He had got out of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators.  His attention wandered at lectures.  Anatomy was a dreary science, a mere matter of learning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection bored him; he did not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when with much less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the specimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were.

He made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to have nothing in particular to say to his companions.  When he tried to interest himself in their concerns, he felt that they found him patronising.  He was not of those who can talk of what moves them without caring whether it bores or not the people they talk to.  One man, hearing that he had studied art in Paris, and fancying