“What is your rent here?”

“Oh, the landlady’s very nice, different from what some of them are; she’s quite willing to wait till it’s convenient for me to pay.”

He was silent.  What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated.  It was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself.  He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so that he could see anyone who came along William Street.  It seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out.  He fell back into the darkness and watched her walk towards him.  She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year.  He followed her slowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a music-hall.  He went up to her and touched her on the arm.  He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.

“Where are you going, Mildred?”

She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse.  But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue.

“Oh, I was only going to see the show.  It gives me the hump sitting every night by myself.”

He did not pretend to believe her.

“You mustn’t.  Good heavens, I’ve told you fifty times how dangerous it is.  You must stop this sort of thing at once.”

“Oh, hold your jaw,” she cried roughly.  “How d’you suppose I’m going to live?”

He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to drag her away.

“For God’s sake come along.  Let me take you home.  You don’t know what you’re doing.  It’s criminal.”

“What do I care?  Let them take their chance.  Men haven’t been so good to me that I need bother my head about them.”

She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money.  Philip had threepence in his pocket.  He could not follow.  He turned away and walked slowly down Oxford Street.

“I can’t do anything more,” he said to himself.

That was the end.  He did not see her again.

CX

Christmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four days:  Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for him to spend the holidays at the vicarage.  He received an answer from Mrs. Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down.  She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: