ought was of Mildred. It
struck him that he might meet her at Victoria Station and walk with her to
the shop. He shaved quickly, scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus to
the station. He was there by twenty to eight and watched the incoming
trains. Crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that early
hour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along, sometimes in
pairs, here and there a group of girls, but more often alone. They were
white, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and they had an abstracted
look; the younger ones walked lightly, as though the cement of the
platform were pleasant to tread, but the others went as though impelled by
a machine: their faces were set in an anxious frown.

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 com