He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her.  He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed:  that charm of his concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites.  And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another!  He never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine:  the word most common on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman.  Smart!  It was no wonder he pleased Mildred.  They suited one another.

Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them.  He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity.  He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse.  He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them.  At last she got up.

“I think I must be going off now,” she said.

“I daresay you’ve got a lot to do,” he answered.

She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her.  He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her.  Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.

“You haven’t forgotten what you promised?” she said at last, as he held open the door.

“What is that?”

“About the money”

“How much d’you want?”

He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive.  Mildred flushed.  He knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him.  He wanted to make her suffer.

“There’s the dress and the book tomorrow.  That’s all.  Harry won’t come, so we shan’t want money for that.”

Philip’s heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door handle go.  The door swung to.

“Why not?”

“He says we couldn’t, not on your money.”

A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths through her.