go every Sunday to that friendly house.  It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all manner of things with Athelny.  Though his condition seemed so desperate he never left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling of exultation.  At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned, tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he could not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day; and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how long he would be able to go back to the hospital.  He dreamed constantly that he was in the wards.  The awakening was painful.  The sensation of other people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had been used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by himself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him.  It was then that he found it most difficult to combat his despair.  He saw himself going on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam, indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away:  the men who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed to take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he would have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had.

There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle.  He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his course at the hospital.  Philip began to wish with all his might for the old man’s death.  He reckoned out how long he could possibly live:  he was well over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at least seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter had a bad cough.  Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over again the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in the old.  A severe winter might be too much for the old man.  With all his heart Philip longed for cold and rain.  He thought of it constantly, so that it became a monomania.  Uncle William was affected by the great heat too, and in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather.  Philip imagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying that the Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable relief.  As he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the departments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantly what he would do with the money.  He did not know how much it would be, perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough.  He would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, he would pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then he would return to the hospital.  That was the first thing.  Would he have forgotten much?  In six months he could get it all back, and then he would take his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then medicine and surgery.