himself stifle among the houses of London.  He grew haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew not he possessed struggled like a sparrow held in the hand, with little frightened gasps and a quick palpitation of the heart:  he yearned for the broad skies and the open, desolate places among which his childhood had been spent; and he walked off one day, without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another; and the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine and was working on a farm.

Philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery.  On certain mornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to earn a little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the stethoscope.  He learned dispensing.  He was taking the examination in Materia Medica in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs, concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments.  He seized avidly upon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human interest.

He saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of cutting him dead, avoided him.  Philip had felt a certain self-consciousness with Griffiths’ friends, some of whom were now friends of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with Griffiths and surmised they were aware of the reason.  One of them, a very tall fellow, with a small head and a languid air, a youth called Ramsden, who was one of Griffiths’ most faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his manner of talking and his gestures, told Philip that Griffiths was very much hurt because Philip had not answered his letter.  He wanted to be reconciled with him.

“Has he asked you to give me the message?” asked Philip.

“Oh, no.  I’m saying this entirely on my own,” said Ramsden.  “He’s awfully sorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a perfect brick to him.  I know he’d be glad to make it up.  He doesn’t come to the hospital because he’s afraid of meeting you, and he thinks you’d cut him.”

“I should.”

“It makes him feel rather wretched, you know.”

“I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal of fortitude,” said Philip.

“He’ll do anything he can to make it up.”

“How childish and hysterical!  Why should he care?  I’m a very insignificant person, and he can do very well without my company.  I’m not interested in him any more.”

Ramsden thought Philip hard and cold.  He paused for a moment or two, looking about him in a perplexed way.

“Harry wishes to God he’d never had anything to do with the woman.”

“Does he?” asked Philip.

He spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with.  No one could have guessed how violently his heart was beating.  He waited impatiently for Ramsden to go on.

“I suppose you’ve quite got over it now, haven’t you?”

“I?” said Philip.  “Quite.”