Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [213]
Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them. At last she got up.
“I think I must be going off now,” she said.
“I daresay you’ve got a lot to do,” he answered.
She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.
“You haven’t forgotten what you promised?” she said at last, as he held open the door.
“What is that?”
“About the money?”
“How much d’you want?”
He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her suffer.
“There’s the dress and the book tomorrow. That’s all. Harry won’t come, so we shan’t want money for that.”
Philip’s heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door-handle go. The door swung to.
“Why not?”
“He says we couldn’t, not on your money.”
A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths through her.
“I don’t see why not, if I’m willing,” he said.
“That’s what I told him.”
“I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Oh, it’s not that, he wants to all right. He’d go at once if he had the money.”
“If he’s squeamish about it I’ll give you the money.”
“I said you’d lend it if he liked, and we’d pay it back as soon as we could.”
“It’s rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you away for the week-end.”
“It is rather, isn’t it?” she said, with a shameless little laugh.
It sent a cold shudder down Philip’s spine.
“What are you going to do then?” he asked.
“Nothing. He’s going home tomorrow. He must.”
That would be Philip’s salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget this infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their dishonor. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the torture a horrible delight.
“It looks as if it were now or never.”
“That’s what I told him,” she said.
There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was biting his nails in his nervousness.
“Where are you thinking of going?”
“Oh, to Oxford. He was at the ’Varsity there, you know. He said he’d show me the colleges.”
Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of sights.
“And it looks as if you’d have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly