failure put him definitely
among the incompetent and idle men of his year.

He did not care much. He had other things to think of. He told himself
that Mildred must have senses like anybody else, it was only a question of
awakening them; he had theories about woman, the rip at heart, and thought
that there must come a time with everyone when she would yield to
persistence. It was a question of watching for the opportunity, keeping
his temper, wearing her down with small attentions, taking advantage of
the physical exhaustion which opened the heart to tenderness, making
himself a refuge from the petty vexations of her work. He talked to her of
the relations between his friends in Paris and the fair ladies they
admired. The life he described had a charm, an easy gaiety, in which was
no grossness. Weaving into his own recollections the adventures of Mimi
and Rodolphe, of Musette and the rest of them, he poured into Mildred's
ears a story of poverty made picturesque by song and laughter, of lawless
love made romantic by beauty and youth. He never attacked her prejudices
directly, but sought to combat them by the suggestion that they were
suburban. He never let himself be disturbed by her inattention, nor
irritated by her indifference. He thought he had bored her. By an effort
he made himself affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry,
he never asked for anything, he never complained, he never scolded. When
she made engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling
face; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. He never let
her see that she pained him. He understood that his passionate grief had
wearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in
the least degree troublesome. He was heroic.

Though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any conscious
notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became more confidential
with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some
grievance against the manageress of the shop, one of her fellow
waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and though she
never said anything that was not trivial Philip was never tired of
listening to her.

"I like you when you don't want to make love to me," she told him once.

"That's flattering for me," he laughed.

She did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an effort
it needed for him to answer so lightly.

"Oh, I don't m