the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude, interest, had no power beside it.  Because he had not attracted Mildred sexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her.  The idea revolted him; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of men were full of dark places.  Because Mildred was indifferent to him he had thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body with its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made her willing to risk everything to gratify them.  He had never understood her adventure with Emil Miller:  it had seemed so unlike her, and she had never been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths he knew that just the same thing had happened then:  she had been carried off her feet by an ungovernable desire.  He tried to think out what those two men had which so strangely attracted her.  They both had a vulgar facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain coarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality which was their most marked characteristic.  She had a genteel refinement which shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions as indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one:  the brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and she shuddered with voluptuous pain.

One thing Philip had made up his mind about.  He would not go back to the lodgings in which he had suffered.  He wrote to his landlady and gave her notice.  He wanted to have his own things about him.  He determined to take unfurnished rooms:  it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an urgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent nearly seven hundred pounds.  He must make up for it now by the most rigid economy.  Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a fool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to come again he would act in the same way.  It amused him sometimes to consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as strong-minded, deliberate, and cool.  They thought him reasonable and praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of his will.  It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was powerless.  He had no self-control.  He merely seemed to possess it because he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.