ily lit, and
people were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed a
music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:

"Oh, Philip, do let's go there. I haven't been to a music-hall for
months."

"We can't afford stalls, you know."

"Oh, I don't mind, I shall be quite happy in the gallery."

They got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors.
They got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery,
and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room. Mildred's eyes
glistened. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was a simple-mindedness
in her which touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him. Certain things in
her still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which
was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he
had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault
if he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give.
Under different circumstances she might have been a charming girl. She was
extraordinarily unfit for the battle of life. As he watched her now in
profile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he
thought she looked strangely virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion
for her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had
caused him. The smoky atmosphere made Philip's eyes ache, but when he
suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to
stay till the end. He smiled and consented. She took his hand and held it
for the rest of the performance. When they streamed out with the audience
into the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the
Westminster Bridge Road, looking at the people.

"I've not had such a good time as this for months," she said.

Philip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had
carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into his flat.
It was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. At last she grew tired
and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got
down and turned into their own street there was no one about. Mildred
slipped her arm through his.

"It's just like old times, Phil," she said.

She had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called him;
and even now it gave him a curious pang. He remembered how much he had
wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought