He spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone.  It sent a pang into Philip’s heart.  He wondered what strange insight might have led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in Philip’s mind.

“I hope you’ll live for another twenty years,” he said.

“Oh, well, I can’t expect to do that, but if I take care of myself I don’t see why I shouldn’t last another three or four.”

He was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say.  Then, as if he had been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again.

“Everyone has the right to live as long as he can.”

Philip wanted to distract his mind.

“By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?”

“Yes, I had a letter some time this year.  She’s married, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes, she married a widower.  I believe they’re quite comfortable.”

CXI

Next day Philip began work again, but the end which he expected within a few weeks did not come.  The weeks passed into months.  The winter wore away, and in the parks the trees burst into bud and into leaf.  A terrible lassitude settled upon Philip.  Time was passing, though it went with such heavy feet, and he thought that his youth was going and soon he would have lost it and nothing would have been accomplished.  His work seemed more aimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it.  He became skilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had no inventive faculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of French fashions to the English market.  Sometimes he was not displeased with his drawings, but they always bungled them in the execution.  He was amused to notice that he suffered from a lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately carried out.  He had to walk warily.  Whenever he suggested something original Mr. Sampson turned it down:  their customers did not want anything outre, it was a very respectable class of business, and when you had a connection of that sort it wasn’t worth while taking liberties with it.  Once or twice he spoke sharply to Philip; he thought the young man was getting a bit above himself, because Philip’s ideas did not always coincide with his own.

“You jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these days you’ll find yourself in the street.”

Philip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained himself.  After all it could not possibly last much longer, and then he would be done with all these people for ever.  Sometimes in comic desperation he cried out that his uncle must be made of iron.  What a constitution!  The ills he suffered from would have killed any decent person twelve months before.  When at last the news came that the Vicar was dying Philip, who had been thinking of other things, was taken by surprise.  It was in July, and in another fortnight he was to have gone