“Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I took baby out for a little.”

She was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in it than in the silk of the day before.  The baby was sitting on the floor.  She looked up at Philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh when he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes.  The afternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light.

“It’s rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place.  A woman and a baby make very good decoration in a room.”

He had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a bottle of Blaud’s Pills, He gave them to Mildred and told her she must take them after each meal.  It was a remedy she was used to, for she had taken it off and on ever since she was sixteen.

“I’m sure Lawson would love that green skin of yours,” said Philip.  “He’d say it was so paintable, but I’m terribly matter of fact nowadays, and I shan’t be happy till you’re as pink and white as a milkmaid.”

“I feel better already.”

After a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his hat.  It was on Tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in Beak Street, and he was glad that this day came so soon after Mildred’s arrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear.

“Are you going out?” she said.

“Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off.  I shall see you tomorrow.  Good-night.”

Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure.  Macalister, the philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any subject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and though he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit to meet on that one evening in the week.  Macalister thought Hayward a poor creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment:  he asked satirically about Hayward’s literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other capital fellows.  This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson also; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in London and went out to dinner a good deal.  They were all on excellent terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece.  It was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money:  he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter’s career when he was noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it advertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife.  Lawson was brimming over with satisfaction.