Philip did not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have the bother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty ward talking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse.  She was a gray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in the casualty department for twenty years.  She liked the work because she was her own mistress and had no sister to bother her.  Her movements were slow, but she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency.  The dressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength.  She had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her:  she always called them Mr. Brown; and when they expostulated and told her their real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them Mr. Brown.  It interested Philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its two horse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her.  She had long ceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they were drunks, or broken arms, or cut throats.  She took the vice and misery and cruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or blame in human actions:  she accepted.  She had a certain grim humour.

“I remember one suicide,” she said to Philip, “who threw himself into the Thames.  They fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later he developed typhoid fever from swallowing Thames water.”

“Did he die?”

“Yes, he did all right.  I could never make up my mind if it was suicide or not....  They’re a funny lot, suicides.  I remember one man who couldn’t get any work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a revolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all right.  And then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his face blow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards.  Thing I’ve always noticed, people don’t commit suicide for love, as you’d expect, that’s just a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven’t got any money.  I wonder why that is.”

“I suppose money’s more important than love,” suggested Philip.

Money was in any case occupying Philip’s thoughts a good deal just then.  He discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himself had repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses were beginning to worry him.  Mildred was not a good manager, and it cost them as much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed clothes, and Mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it was impossible for her to do without.  When they returned from Brighton she had announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite steps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight.  When she was well she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it:  either she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the work was more than she felt strong enough to do.  Once she got an offer, but the wages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth more than that.