"

He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five
he would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk home, but it
did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to
walk on air.

XCI

Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told the
woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more.
Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went
down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now
of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had
been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. She wore
the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she
had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black
which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look
very ill. She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the
baby in her arms. She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but
commonplace things to say to one another.

"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 recognise 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
recognised 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