l Gallery. She was
to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to
lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his
exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in
the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to
himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his
impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his
pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpish
fool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was
a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance
in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance,
and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed
Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he
saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same
figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so
characteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he
hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it
was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with
a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved,
but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was
seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion?
At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a
strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That
love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never
quite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire.

But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her
kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile.
He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first
room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always
comforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but
allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to
work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be
pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual
figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had
learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the t