“Don’t waste your time looking at me, silly.  Go on with your work,” she said.

“Tyrant,” he answered gaily.

He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her.  She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue.  Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in.  The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable.  Mildred’s sense of propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her brother.  They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered something which tempted Mildred’s capricious appetite.  It enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it.  After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked.  Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze.  He dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his happiness.

“Had a nice little nap?” he smiled, when she woke.

“I’ve not been sleeping,” she answered.  “I only just closed my eyes.”

She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep.  She had a phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her.  She took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it.  She went for a `constitutional’ every morning that it was fine and remained out a definite time.  When it was not too cold she sat in St. James’ Park.  But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side.  Now and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; “I’m one to keep myself to myself,” she said, “I’m not one to go about with anybody.”) and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.

“After all, I’m not the first one to have a baby, am I?  And the doctor says I shan’t have any trouble.  You see, it isn’t as if I wasn’t well made.”

Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week.  He was to charge fifteen guineas.