n out of the manifold chaos of
life, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation
with pigments and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip's
friendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: it
was merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of no
further interest to him.

Sometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the streets
in which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling,
perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would not
acknowledge, made him wander about Piccadilly and Regent Street during the
hours when she might be expected to be there. He did not know then whether
he wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him
of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious
sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it
and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was
mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or
disappointment.

At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last
examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had
entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the
stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which
qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction.

"Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought.

Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of
the hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a
black beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated
him on his success, and then said:

"I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast?
Three guineas a week with board and lodging."

"I wouldn't mind," said Philip.

"It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at
once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant
place."

There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was
a little doubtful.

"What's the crab in it?" he asked.

The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion.

"Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow.
The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very
openly, and men don't like it."

"But d'you think he'll