truded her little finger. He started several topics of
conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with
irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing
with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a
very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He
thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that
they did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself
thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and
then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she
applauded rapturously.

"This is the seventh time I've been," she said, after the first act, "and
I don't mind if I come seven times more."

She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls.
She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false
hair.

"It is horrible, these West-end people," she said. "I don't know how they
can do it." She put her hand to her hair. "Mine's all my own, every bit of
it."

She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say
something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day
she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he
had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he
wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:

"I hope you've enjoyed yourself?"

"Rather."

"Will you come out with me again one evening?"

"I don't mind."

He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference
maddened him.

"That sounds as if you didn't much care if you came or not."

"Oh, if you don't take me out some other fellow will. I need never want
for men who'll take me to the theatre."

Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the
booking-office.

"I've got my season," she said.

"I thought I'd take you home as it's rather late, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I don't mind if it gives you any pleasure."

He took a single first for her and a return for himself.

"Well, you're not mean, I will say that for you," she said, when he opened
the carriage-door.

Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people
entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he
accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.

"I'll say good-night to you here," she