“I’ve heard a great deal about you,” he said to Mildred, as he took her hand.

“Not so much as I’ve heard about you,” she answered.

“Nor so bad,” said Philip.

“Has he been blackening my character?”

Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white and regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.

“You ought to feel like old friends,” said Philip.  “I’ve talked so much about you to one another.”

Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of London.  He was taking up his duties at the beginning of May and meanwhile was going home for a holiday; this was his last week in town, and he was determined to get as much enjoyment into it as he could.  He began to talk the gay nonsense which Philip admired because he could not copy it.  There was nothing much in what he said, but his vivacity gave it point.  There flowed from him a force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost as sensible as bodily warmth.  Mildred was more lively than Philip had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that his little party was a success.  She was amusing herself enormously.  She laughed louder and louder.  She quite forgot the genteel reserve which had become second nature to her.

Presently Griffiths said: 

“I say, it’s dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller.  Philip never calls you anything but Mildred.”

“I daresay she won’t scratch your eyes out if you call her that too,” laughed Philip.

“Then she must call me Harry.”

Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to see people happy.  Now and then Griffiths teased him a little, kindly, because he was always so serious.

“I believe he’s quite fond of you, Philip,” smiled Mildred.

“He isn’t a bad old thing,” answered Griffiths, and taking Philip’s hand he shook it gaily.

It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip.  They were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads.  Griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet.  He had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration.  He played in all of them a gallant, humorous part.  Mildred, her eyes shining with excitement, urged him on.  He poured out anecdote after anecdote.  When the lights began to be turned out she was astonished.

“My word, the evening has gone quickly.  I thought it wasn’t more than half past nine.”

They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added: 

“I’m coming to have tea at Philip’s room tomorrow.  You might look in if you can.”

“All right,” he smiled.

On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but Griffiths.  She was taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his gaiety.