Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success.  He noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger.  He started several topics of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the German.  They finished dinner and went to the play.  Philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn.  He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that they did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously.

“This is the seventh time I’ve been,” she said, after the first act, “and I don’t mind if I come seven times more.”

She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls.  She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false hair.

“It is horrible, these West-end people,” she said.  “I don’t know how they can do it.”  She put her hand to her hair.  “Mine’s all my own, every bit of it.”

She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say something disagreeable.  It made Philip uneasy.  He supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death.  He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with her.  On the way home he asked: 

“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself?”

“Rather.”

“Will you come out with me again one evening?”

“I don’t mind.”

He could never get beyond such expressions as that.  Her indifference maddened him.

“That sounds as if you didn’t much care if you came or not.”

“Oh, if you don’t take me out some other fellow will.  I need never want for men who’ll take me to the theatre.”

Philip was silent.  They came to the station, and he went to the booking-office.

“I’ve got my season,” she said.

“I thought I’d take you home as it’s rather late, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if it gives you any pleasure.”

He took a single first for her and a return for himself.

“Well, you’re not mean, I will say that for you,” she said, when he opened the carriage-door.

Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people entered and it was impossible to speak.  They got out at Herne Hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.

“I’ll say good-night to you here,” she said, holding out her hand.  “You’d better not come up to the door.  I know what people are, and I don’t want to have anybody talking.”