Of Human Bondage (1915) - W. Somerset Maugham [156]
At last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her eagerly.
"Good-morning," he said. "I thought I'd come and see how you were after last night."
She wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It was very clear that she was not pleased to see him.
"Oh, I'm all right. I haven't got much time to waste."
"D'you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with you?"
"I'm none too early. I shall have to walk fast," she answered, looking down at Philip's club-foot.
He turned scarlet.
"I beg your pardon. I won't detain you."
"You can please yourself."
She went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to breakfast. He hated her. He knew he was a fool to bother about her; she was not the sort of woman who would ever care two straws for him, and she must look upon his deformity with distaste. He made up his mind that he would not go in to tea that afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. She nodded to him as he came in and smiled.
"I expect I was rather short with you this morning," she said. "You see, I didn't expect you, and it came like a surprise."
"Oh, it doesn't matter at all."
He felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. He was infinitely grateful for one word of kindness.
"Why don't you sit down?" he asked. "Nobody's wanting you just now."
"I don't mind if I do."
He looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked his brains anxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her by him; he wanted to tell her how much she meant to him; but he did not know how to make love now that he loved in earnest.
"Where's your friend with the fair moustache? I haven't seen him lately"
"Oh, he's gone back to Birmingham. He's in business there. He only comes up to London every now and again."
"Is he in love with you?"
"You'd better ask him," she said, with a laugh. "I don't know what it's got to do with you if he is."
A bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning self-restraint.
"I wonder why you say things like that," was all he permitted himself to say.
She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers.
"It looks as if you didn't set much store on me," he added.
"Why should I?"
"No reason at all."
He reached over for his paper.
"You are quick-tempered," she said, when she saw the gesture. "You do take offence easily."
He smiled and looked at her appealingly.
"Will you do something for me?" he asked.
"That depends what it is."
"Let me walk back to the station with you tonight."
"I don't mind."
He went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight o'clock, when the shop closed, he was waiting outside.
"You are a caution," she said, when she came out. "I don't understand you."
"I shouldn't have thought it was very difficult," he answered bitterly.
"Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?"
"I don't know and I don't care."
"They all laugh at you, you know. They say you're spoony on me."
"Much you care," he muttered.
"Now then, quarrelsome."
At the station he took a ticket and said he was going to accompany her home.
"You don't seem to have much to do with your time," she said.
"I suppose I can waste it in my own way."
They seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. The fact was that he hated himself for loving her. She seemed to be constantly humiliating him, and for each snub that he endured he owed her a grudge. But she was in a friendly mood that evening, and talkative: she told him that her parents were dead; she gave him to understand that she did not have to earn her living, but worked for amusement.
"My aunt doesn't like my going to business. I can