“It’ll have to go back and be altered,” she said.  “The skirt hangs all wrong.”

“You’ll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take it to Paris with you.”

“It’ll be ready in time for that.”

“Only three more whole days.  We’ll go over by the eleven o’clock, shall we?”

“If you like.”

He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself.  His eyes rested on her with hungry adoration.  He was able to laugh a little at his own passion.

“I wonder what it is I see in you,” he smiled.

“That’s a nice thing to say,” she answered.

Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton.  Her chest was as flat as a boy’s.  Her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and her skin was faintly green.

“I shall give you Blaud’s Pills in quantities when we’re away,” said Philip, laughing.  “I’m going to bring you back fat and rosy.”

“I don’t want to get fat,” she said.

She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were dining Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her, said: 

“It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry last night?”

“I told you I was in love with him,” she laughed.

“I’m glad to know that he’s not in love with you.”

“How d’you know?”

“I asked him.”

She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam came into her eyes.

“Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?”

She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths’ bold, legible writing.  There were eight pages.  It was well written, frank and charming; it was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women.  He told Mildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the first moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond Philip was of her, but he could not help himself.  Philip was such a dear, and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was just carried away.  He paid her delightful compliments.  Finally he thanked her for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully impatient to see her.  Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night before; Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had taken the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he was in bed.

He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward sign of surprise.  He handed it back to Mildred with a smile, calmly.

“Did you enjoy your lunch?”

“Rather,” she said emphatically.

He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table.

“You mustn’t take Griffiths too seriously.  He’s just a butterfly, you know.”

She took the letter and looked at it again.

“I can’t help it either,” she said, in a voice which she tried to make nonchalant.  “I don’t know what’s come over me.”