ugh, according to his
capacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. In his long
career to how many dying persons must he have administered the
consolations of religion! Perhaps he was like the doctor who could get no
benefit from his own prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by that
eager cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at the
back of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe into his soul so
that he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknown
which he suspected.

The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He passed a
sweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in
his shirt sleeves. The assistants in relays went for their holidays. In
the evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band.
Growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind,
recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. His whole
desire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on dreaming the same
dream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced
the Vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke and
found it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. He
occupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time,
with elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over the
year which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified
and dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set. He read
books about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and
already he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. He
saw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the
Gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat in
churches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt the
mysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into his humour, and on
Sunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philip
should miss nothing that was noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philip
began to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in
Harrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises
and puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificent
phrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philip
learned a few sentences to help him on his journey. Mrs. A