He went into his office, muttering angrily.  Philip’s heart sank.  When Friday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense of shame.  His cheeks were burning.  It was horrible to display himself to the passers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to such a feeling he turned his back to the street.  There was not much chance that any of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford Street at that hour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, with a huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch the eye of some man he knew.  He made all the haste he could.  By the simple observation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more than was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer went into the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased.

“I knew I shouldn’t go far wrong in putting you on the window.  The fact is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn’t say this in the department, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells.  It’s no good your telling me it doesn’t tell, because I know it does tell.”

Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself to the publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on which the window was dressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o’clock and lie sleepless with sickness in his heart.  The girls in the department noticed his shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standing with his back to the street.  They laughed at him and called him `sidey.’

“I suppose you’re afraid your aunt’ll come along and cut you out of her will.”

On the whole he got on well enough with the girls.  They thought him a little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like the rest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured.  He never minded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered.

“You can see he’s a gentleman,” they said.

“Very reserved, isn’t he?” said one young woman, to whose passionate enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved.

Most of them had `fellers,’ and those who hadn’t said they had rather than have it supposed that no one had an inclination for them.  One or two showed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with Philip, and he watched their manoeuvres with grave amusement.  He had had enough of love-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and often hungry.

CVI

Philip avoided the places he had known in happier times.  The little gatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were broken up:  Macalister, having let down his friends, no longer went there, and Hayward was at the Cape.  Only Lawson remained; and Philip, feeling that now the painter and he had nothing in common, did not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon, after dinner, having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to go to the free library in St. Martin’s Lane, meaning to spend the afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him.  His first instinct was to pass on without a word, but Lawson did not give him the opportunity.