“But you promised me too.  Surely I come first.”

“I wish you wouldn’t persist,” he said.

She flared up.

“You won’t come because you don’t want to.  I don’t know what you’ve been doing the last few days, you’ve been quite different.”

He looked at his watch.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to be going,” he said.

“You won’t come tomorrow?”

“No.”

“In that case you needn’t trouble to come again,” she cried, losing her temper for good.

“That’s just as you like,” he answered.

“Don’t let me detain you any longer,” she added ironically.

He shrugged his shoulders and walked out.  He was relieved that it had gone no worse.  There had been no tears.  As he walked along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so easily.  He went into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred.

The little dinner was a great success.  Philip had sent in a small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet.  Philip had ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite wine.  With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of Mildred’s shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.

“It’s really just like home,” smiled Philip.

“I might be worse off, mightn’t I?” she answered.

When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and they sat down.  He smoked his pipe comfortably.  He felt happy and generous.

“What would you like to do tomorrow?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m going to Tulse Hill.  You remember the manageress at the shop, well, she’s married now, and she’s asked me to go and spend the day with her.  Of course she thinks I’m married too.”

Philip’s heart sank.

“But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you.”

He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would stay with him.  He knew very well that Norah would not have hesitated.

“Well, you were a silly to do that.  I’ve promised to go for three weeks and more.”

“But how can you go alone?”

“Oh, I shall say that Emil’s away on business.  Her husband’s in the glove trade, and he’s a very superior fellow.”

Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart.  She gave him a sidelong glance.

“You don’t grudge me a little pleasure, Philip?  You see, it’s the last time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don’t know how long, and I had promised.”

He took her hand and smiled.

“No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can.  I only want you to be happy.”

There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up.  It was a twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget.  That was the name under which Norah wrote.