“Are you glad to see me?” he asked, love dancing madly in his heart.

“Of course I am.  You needn’t ask that.”

“By the way, Griffiths sends you his love.”

“What cheek!”

He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths.  He had told her how flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some adventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him.  Mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his friend’s good looks and charm.

“I’m sure you’ll like him just as much as I do.  He’s so jolly and amusing, and he’s such an awfully good sort.”

Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths had nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths’ self-sacrifice lost nothing.

“You can’t help liking him,” said Philip.

“I don’t like good-looking men,” said Mildred.  “They’re too conceited for me.”

“He wants to know you.  I’ve talked to him about you an awful lot.”

“What have you said?” asked Mildred.

Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her.  He described her to him fifty times.  He dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the charm of her pale, thin lips.

“By Jove, I’m glad I don’t take things so badly as that,” he said.  “Life wouldn’t be worth living.”

Philip smiled.  Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever else was essential to existence.  Griffiths knew that Philip had looked after the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with her.

“Well, I must say you’ve deserved to get something,” he remarked.  “It must have cost you a pretty penny.  It’s lucky you can afford it.”

“I can’t,” said Philip.  “But what do I care!”

Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass.  There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches.  They could tell the people who had come down from London for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness.  There were many Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little corpulent men with a gesticulative manner.  There were middle-aged gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon:  they