Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [255]
“So you’ve got here all right.”
“I’ve never lived in this part of London before.”
Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died. Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going back to it; and since Cronshaw’s death he had remained in the little room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.
“You don’t recognize her, I expect,” said Mildred.
“I’ve not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.”
“Where shall I put her? She’s so heavy I can’t carry her very long.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,” said Philip, with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, she’ll sleep with me. She always does.” Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She recognized most of the things which she had known in his old diggings. Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.
“In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t. I think you’re better-looking than that.”
“Things are looking up,” laughed Philip. “You’ve never told me I was good-looking before.”
“I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks. I don’t like good-looking men. They’re too conceited for me.”
Her eyes traveled round the room in an instinctive search for a looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her large fringe.
“What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, there’s only a man and his wife living here. He’s out all day, and I never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to themselves. I’ve not spoken two words to either of them since I came.”
Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child. He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not understand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again.
“I say, you needn’t knock,” he said. “Have you made the tour of the mansion?”
“It’s the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts,” he retorted lightly.
“I see there’s nothing in. I’d better go out and get something.”
“Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical.”
“What shall I get for supper?”
“You’d better get what you think you can cook,” laughed Philip.
He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing the stairs.
“I say, you are anaemic,” said Philip. “I’ll have to dose you with Blaud’s Pills.”
“It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That’s tasty, isn’t it? And you can’t eat much of it, so it’s more economical than butcher’s meat.”
There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on, Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.
“Why are you only laying one place?” asked Philip. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
Mildred flushed.
“I thought you mightn’t like me to have my meals with you.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Well, I’m only a servant, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be an ass. How can you be so silly?”
He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He hesitated for an instant.
“Don’t think I’m conferring any benefit on you,” he said. “It’s simply a business arrangement; I’m giving you board and lodging in return for your work. You don’t owe me anything. And there’s nothing humiliating to you in it.”
She did not answer, but tears