“Well, I ’ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I ’ave my rent to pay, and I can’t afford to let accounts run on.”  She did not speak with anger, but with determination that was rather frightening.  She paused for a moment and then said:  “If you don’t pay next Saturday, I shall ’ave to complain to the secretary of the ’ospital.”

“Oh yes, that’ll be all right.”

She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room.  When she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing to say.

“I’ve got a nice ’ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the kitchen you’re welcome to a bit of dinner.”

Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at his throat.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I’m not at all hungry.”

“Very good, sir.”

When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed.  He had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from crying.

C

Saturday.  It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady.  He had been expecting something to turn up all through the week.  He had found no work.  He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so dazed that he did not know what to do.  He had at the back of his mind a feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke.  He had no more than a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and goings:  he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his room.  The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill.  He had not the courage.  It was the middle of June.  The night was fine and warm.  He made up his mind to stay out.  He walked slowly along the Chelsea Embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench and dozed.  He did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone.  He walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he slept again.  Presently the hardness of the bench roused him.  The night seemed very long.  He shivered.  He was seized with a sense of his misery; and he did not know what on earth to do:  he was ashamed at having slept on the Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks flush in the darkness.  He remembered stories he had heard of those who did and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to universities:  he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a line to get soup from a charitable institution.  It would be much better to commit suicide.  He could not go on like that:  Lawson would help him when he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him from asking for assistance.  He wondered why he had come such a cropper.  He had always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone wrong.  He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be reduced to such a pass.