“I say, I’m awfully sorry you’re ploughed,” he said.

He had just inquired Philip’s number.  Philip turned and saw by his radiant face that Dunsford had passed.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit,” said Philip.  “I’m jolly glad you’re all right.  I shall go up again in July.”

He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things.  Dunsford good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip’s failure, but Philip was obstinately casual.  He was horribly mortified; and the fact that Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear.  He had always been proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he was not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself.  In the three months of the winter session the students who had joined in October had already shaken down into groups, and it was clear which were brilliant, which were clever or industrious, and which were `rotters.’  Philip was conscious that his failure was a surprise to no one but himself.  It was tea-time, and he knew that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the Medical School:  those who had passed the examination would be exultant, those who disliked him would look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who had failed would sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy.  His instinct was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would be no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he went:  he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself.  He forgot for the moment his maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for the policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it, there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made him take a grim pleasure in self-torture.

But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced himself, going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the smoking-room, he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness.  He seemed to himself absurd and futile.  He had an urgent need of consolation, and the temptation to see Mildred was irresistible.  He thought bitterly that there was small chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if he did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would be obliged to serve him.  She was the only person in the world he cared for.  There was no use in hiding that fact from himself.  Of course it would be humiliating to go back to the shop as though nothing had happened, but he had not much self-respect left.  Though he would not confess it to himself, he had hoped each day that she would write to him; she knew that a letter addressed to the hospital would find him; but she had not written:  it was evident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not.  And he kept on repeating to himself: