stood outside Miss Wilkinson's room and listened; he put his hand on the
knob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for at
least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He
would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he
knew would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board in
a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there
and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that
forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you
had climbed up. Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly
and walked in. He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.

Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the
door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open.

"Oh, it's you. What d'you want?"

She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat.
It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of
it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. She
wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She looked grotesque.
Philip's heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so
unattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the door behind him and
locked it.

XXXV

Philip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when he
stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the
Venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with
satisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of Miss
Wilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why, he
could not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid him
for so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. During his
childhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a naval
officer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to call Miss
Wilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suited
her better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable
from his impression of her. He frowned a little: somehow or other he saw
her now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned round
and he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the
slight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the
neck. His triumph was short-lived. He rec