“I’m so grateful to you.  I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you?”

“Oh, that’s all right.  You’d better go home now.”

He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five he would be ready for her.  It was so late that he had to walk home, but it did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to walk on air.

XCI

Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred.  He told the woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more.  Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage:  it consisted now of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful.  She wore the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning:  it made her look very ill.  She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the baby in her arms.  She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one another.

“So you’ve got here all right.”

“I’ve never lived in this part of London before.”

Philip showed her the room.  It was that in which Cronshaw had died.  Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going back to it; and since Cronshaw’s death he had remained in the little room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make his friend comfortable.  The baby was sleeping placidly.

“You don’t recognise her, I expect,” said Mildred.

“I’ve not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.”

“Where shall I put her?  She’s so heavy I can’t carry her very long.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,” said Philip, with a nervous laugh.

“Oh, she’ll sleep with me.  She always does.”

Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room.  She recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings.  Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.

“In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t.  I think you’re better looking than that.”

“Things are looking up,” laughed Philip.  “You’ve never told me I was good-looking before.”

“I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks.  I don’t like good-looking men.  They’re too conceited for me.”

Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her large fringe.

“What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?” she asked suddenly.