Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [257]
“Are you going out?” she said.
“Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall see you tomorrow. Good night.”
Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. Macalister, the philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any subject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and though he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit to meet on that one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically about Hayward’s literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; toward the end of the evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other capital fellows. This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson also; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in London and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. It was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money: he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter’s career when he was noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it advertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife. Lawson was brimming over with satisfaction.
“It’s the most ripping way of making money that I’ve ever struck,” he cried. “I didn’t have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence.”
“You lost something by not being here last Tuesday, young man,” said Macalister to Philip.
“My God, why didn’t you write to me?” said Philip. “If you only knew how useful a hundred pounds would be to me.”
“Oh, there wasn’t time for that. One has to be on the spot. I heard of a good thing last Tuesday, and I asked these fellows if they’d like to have a flutter. I bought them a thousand shares on Wednesday morning, and there was a rise in the afternoon, so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds for each of them and a couple of hundred for myself.”
Philip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the last mortgage in which his small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds left. He was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. He had still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and then he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not expect to earn anything for three years at least. With the most rigid economy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was very little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn money or found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make all the difference to him.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” said Macalister. “Something is sure to turn up soon. There’ll be a boom in South Africans again one of these days, and then I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Macalister was in the Kaffir market and often told them stories of the sudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two back.
“Well, don’t forget next time.”
They sat on talking till nearly midnight, and Philip, who lived furthest off, was the first to go. If he did not catch the last tram he had to walk, and that made him very late. As it was he did not reach home till nearly half past twelve. When he got upstairs he was surprised to find Mildred still sitting in his arm-chair.
“Why on earth aren’t you in bed?” he cried.
“I wasn’t sleepy.”
“You ought to go to bed all the same. It would rest you.”
She did not move. He noticed that since supper she had changed