in these times. It's regular and it's safe; I
expect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction."

It was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see the
ascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, had
acquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny treated Philip
with motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he was
touched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. It was the solace
of his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what
chiefly appalled him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendly
house. It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all
manner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so desperate he
never left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling of
exultation. At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned,
tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he
could not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day;
and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how
long he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed constantly
that he was in the wards. The awakening was painful. The sensation of
other people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had
been used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by
himself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. It was then
that he found it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himself
going on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam,
indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the men
who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed
to take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he
would have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had.

There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle.
He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his
course at the hospital. Philip began to wish with all his might for the
old man's death. He reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he was
well over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at
least seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter
had a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over
again the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronc