“It shows the waiters who you are,” she said.

Philip chose an opportunity when she seemed more than usually friendly.  He had an examination in anatomy at the end of March.  Easter, which came a week later, would give Mildred three whole days holiday.

“I say, why don’t you come over to Paris then?” he suggested.  “We’d have such a ripping time.”

“How could you?  It would cost no end of money.”

Philip had thought of that.  It would cost at least five-and-twenty pounds.  It was a large sum to him.  He was willing to spend his last penny on her.

“What does that matter?  Say you’ll come, darling.”

“What next, I should like to know.  I can’t see myself going away with a man that I wasn’t married to.  You oughtn’t to suggest such a thing.”

“What does it matter?”

He enlarged on the glories of the Rue de la Paix and the garish splendour of the Folies Bergeres.  He described the Louvre and the Bon Marche.  He told her about the Cabaret du Neant, the Abbaye, and the various haunts to which foreigners go.  He painted in glowing colours the side of Paris which he despised.  He pressed her to come with him.

“You know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you’d want to marry me.  You’ve never asked me to marry you.”

“You know I can’t afford it.  After all, I’m in my first year, I shan’t earn a penny for six years.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you.  I wouldn’t marry you if you went down on your bended knees to me.”

He had thought of marriage more than once, but it was a step from which he shrank.  In Paris he had come by the opinion that marriage was a ridiculous institution of the philistines.  He knew also that a permanent tie would ruin him.  He had middle-class instincts, and it seemed a dreadful thing to him to marry a waitress.  A common wife would prevent him from getting a decent practice.  Besides, he had only just enough money to last him till he was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if they arranged not to have children.  He thought of Cronshaw bound to a vulgar slattern, and he shuddered with dismay.  He foresaw what Mildred, with her genteel ideas and her mean mind, would become:  it was impossible for him to marry her.  But he decided only with his reason; he felt that he must have her whatever happened; and if he could not get her without marrying her he would do that; the future could look after itself.  It might end in disaster; he did not care.  When he got hold of an idea it obsessed him, he could think of nothing else, and he had a more than common power to persuade himself of the reasonableness of what he wished to do.  He found himself overthrowing all the sensible arguments which had occurred to him against marriage.  Each day he found that he was more passionately devoted to her; and his unsatisfied love became angry and resentful.

“By George, if I marry her I’ll make her pay for all the suffering I’ve endured,” he said to himself.