There had been romantic friendships with women of property. Philippa had always been drawn to these ladies by soul-affinity—it was here that the vagueness of her mind stood her in good stead—but that fact did not lessen their balance at the bank, nor the tangible advantage which it bestowed on Philippa. With one lady, she had travelled in Italy and Greece. Another had paid for her course of instruction in enamelling, and considered herself blest in being allowed the privilege. A third had, till lately, paid the rent of her studio. Philippa accepted these benefits with a beautiful simplicity. No one better than she could gracefully bear an obligation. She had the rare art not only of making the benefactor feel privileged but of herself believing it to be the case. With such a mixture of approbation and transient tenderness for the giver, might an angel regard the devotee who has shielded him from “beating in the void his luminous wings in vain.”
But feminine friendships are proverbially evanescent, and though the proverb may contain as much truth as other conventional maxims, Philippa had certainly found them “disappointing.” She had frequently to lament the jealousy of one, the pettiness of another, the terrible coarseness of fibre of a third. And though women are numerous, their incomes are usually small, and to be disappointed in one dear friend with money is a calamity. She is not easily replaced.
Philippa was not only deeply disappointed in Miss Wetherby, the lady who for two years previous had ensured the rent of her studio; she was also considerably worried. Their quarrel had been upon a very delicate matter—a matter of money; and Miss Wetherby had taken a low but decided view upon a transaction which Philippa was accustomed to slur over in thought. An episode followed upon which, again, she refused to dwell, except at intervals when she received a little note which she hastened to put into the fire. She had that very morning burned one of these letters, but, however unwillingly, she was now obliged to consider its contents.
Bohemia is a wide country, and some of its inhabitants are unsavory. Eighteen months previous, at a moment when a cheque was imperatively necessary, Philippa had allowed one of them to come to her assistance. She had not subsequently treated him very well, and his letters began to threaten her peace of mind. They hinted at danger. It was then that she first met Robert. Hitherto, in spite of her beauty, her relations with men, with one very dubious exception, had not from any material point of view been satisfactory. She had met few—of the right sort. There had been the men at the art schools, of course, mostly penniless, who had raved about her. Philippa had not encouraged them, further than Artemis might have encouraged the worshippers at her shrine. They were practically useless, except as rather shabby burners of incense. Poverty and dependence upon feminine caprice is not the best milieu for making the acquaintance of rich men, added to which there was the undoubted fact that the average man of the world had a tendency to regard Philippa as Mayne had regarded her. He did not care for “that kind of thing.” Accustomed to “smartness” in women, Philippa’s robes made him feel as vaguely uncomfortable as her intense style of conversation abashed and disconcerted him. Certainly it required a man who at least dabbled in art, who at least had some sympathy with the Quartier Latin, to appreciate Philippa.
For some time before she and Robert had become friends she had known him by sight. He had been pointed out to her once at the Museum as Fergus Macdonald, the novelist who was becoming well known, and bade fair presently to coin money. Before very long it was obvious that he admired her, and with no definite idea as to the result, yet with a sure instinct that it was the wise course to adopt, Philippa had extended her period of reading. The outcome had been satisfactory, though it was a blow to learn that he was married, and a blow that was not softened by the discovery that she knew his wife. In the early days of their acquaintance, Philippa read much literature which dealt with the possibility of friendship between man and woman. At a later date, when Robert was getting a little out of hand, and her own thoughts began to stray towards putting their sacred friendship upon a different plane, she discovered many treatises upon the doctrine of free love. She began to study the subject, and found it quite engrossing. It seemed to her a very beautiful and noble attitude towards a great aspect of human life. Robert and she often discussed it together earnestly. In the meantime, the Simple Life, which, at the recommendation of Tolstoi, Miles, and others, she had adopted since the defection of Miss Wetherby, had not proved so economical as she had hoped. Besides, she was getting tired of it.
Robert frequently took her out to lunch, and the frailty of the natural man prevailing over the submission of the lover, he had, at an early date, abandoned the vegetarian restaurant for Prince’s or the Carlton. Resigning her principles, as a tender concession to Robert’s weakness, Philippa had become reconciled to six-course meals, and began to hate plasmon and suspect the efficacy of vegetables as an incentive to exalted thought.
She began to yearn, like the rich man, to fare sumptuously every day. Yet what was the use of such a desire as that when not only was she hard pressed to live at all, but also more deeply in debt than she cared to own even to herself? In old days, living in the sunshine of the smiles and the blank cheques of her dearest friends, Philippa had run up bills with alarming celerity. The “simple” dress was not cheap. Neither were the ornaments for which she had an unfortunate weakness; clasps and pendants of enamel and uncut gems of chaste and simple workmanship—but quite expensive. The bills began to come in with alarming frequency, and a growing tendency to unpleasant remark. She grew depressed. Robert, who raged over the injustice of a callous world which imposed poverty on beauty, constantly implored to be allowed to lighten the load. Philippa, smiling through her tears, as constantly refused.
It was she who had at last suggested the secretaryship. Robert had at first demurred, and seeing this she had pressed the point, had made it a test of his love for her. In no other way would she take from him so much as a farthing. He yielded, and under cover of her value to him as secretary Robert paid her an absurdly generous salary.
But even with Robert to the rescue matters were bad enough. Philippa fingered disgustedly the last bill she had received, and finally threw it into the fire. She sat gazing at the flame it made, the furrow between her eyes deepening as she thought. And in the background there was something worse. Characteristically she did not face it. She thought of it hazily, indeed, but it was inexorably there. She had put a weapon into the hands of a man who, if he used it at all, would not use it like a gentleman.
A neighboring church clock struck, and she started up. Quarter to four!—and she was not dressed.