“I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip.”

He took her hand and looked up at her.  She bent down and kissed him.

“Philip, if you want me still I’ll do anything you like now.  I know you’re a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

His heart stood still.  Her words made him feel slightly sick.

“It’s awfully good of you, but I couldn’t.”

“Don’t you care for me any more?”

“Yes, I love you with all my heart.”

“Then why shouldn’t we have a good time while we’ve got the chance?  You see, it can’t matter now”

He released himself from her.

“You don’t understand.  I’ve been sick with love for you ever since I saw you, but now—­that man.  I’ve unfortunately got a vivid imagination.  The thought of it simply disgusts me.”

“You are funny,” she said.

He took her hand again and smiled at her.

“You mustn’t think I’m not grateful.  I can never thank you enough, but you see, it’s just stronger than I am.”

“You are a good friend, Philip.”

They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar companionship of old days.  It grew late.  Philip suggested that they should dine together and go to a music-hall.  She wanted some persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment.  At last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and when she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted.  She had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip.  She asked him to take her to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had so often been; he was infinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it.  She grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded.  The Burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance.  Philip thought it safe to speak to her of the future.

“I suppose you haven’t got a brass farthing, have you?” he asked, when an opportunity presented itself.

“Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady three pounds of that.”

“Well, I’d better give you a tenner to go on with.  I’ll go and see my solicitor and get him to write to Miller.  We can make him pay up something, I’m sure.  If we can get a hundred pounds out of him it’ll carry you on till after the baby comes.”

“I wouldn’t take a penny from him.  I’d rather starve.”

“But it’s monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like this.”

“I’ve got my pride to consider.”

It was a little awkward for Philip.  He needed rigid economy to make his own money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to keep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and house surgeon either at his own or at some other hospital.  But Mildred had told him various stories of Emil’s meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate with her in case she accused him too of want of generosity.