Philip alone was preoccupied. That morning he had received a letter from his firm, offering him what was practically a year's holiday. Sometime previously the representative of a great industrial corporation in the United States had visited England as the guest of the Britannia Company. He had been royally entertained; several excellent understandings had been reached, and an important commercial alliance cemented. Now Philip was invited to represent the Company on a return visit. It was a signal honour and a tempting prospect. He would encounter fresh people and new ideas; he would be able to enlarge his technical knowledge, for he would go everywhere and be shown everything; and—well, he might be able to get a little further away from his thoughts. He was suffering at present from a satiety of thought, and the morning's letter had brought matters to a crisis. Numerous forces were at war within him.
Chivalry said: "If you may not live with her, live for her; go your own way as far as you must, but do not go too far: she may need you."
Common sense said: "Why sigh after a girl who does not care for you, and never did? You are nothing to her: why offer her what you do not owe and what she cannot take?"
To-night a third voice had joined in the debate. It said: "Love is not entirely a matter of twin souls and divine passion: it has a very material side. Life is short; we live but once: it is given to few to encounter their affinity in this world: it is foolish to waste one's youth waiting for a thing which may not exist. Why not be practical? Why not cut the Gordian knot? Marry some nice pretty girl, with no nonsense about her, and have done with it. Then you will have a comfortable home and a loyal mate, and be able to turn out some decent work."
Thousands of men, and tens of thousands of women, have debated this problem in their time; but Philip did not know this. We are apt to think that our own human experiences are unique.
Suddenly Sylvia turned to him. Her dark eyes were full of reproach.
"Philip, you are not listening a bit. This next song ought to be lovely."
Philip, apologetically conning the programme, recognised therein the name of a great singer—the latest recruit to the variety stage—who, having achieved a European reputation as the leading operatic baritone of his day, had abandoned that strenuous calling in the zenith of his drawing powers in order to earn an ambassadorial income by singing selections from his repertoire—which means the hackneyed ballads beloved of the British Public—for some fifteen minutes per diem.
Presently the great man appeared. He began with the Toreador's song from "Carmen," which set heads nodding and toes beating time. Then came "O Star of Eve"; and last of all, "I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby."
Struck by an unwonted stillness at his side, Philip glanced at Sylvia. Her effervescence was gone. With a child's instant susceptibility to external influences her mood had changed: she was raptly drinking in the limpid notes that came floating to her through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the Arena Palace of Varieties. A humorous remark from Derek Rayner fell upon unheeding ears. Her eyes shone, her breath came quickly; her flower-like face was alight with tender enthusiasm.