“Well, I’d rather wait for him than have you wait for me. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. And now p’raps you’ll go off home and mind your own business in future.”
His mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice trembled when he spoke.
“I say, don’t be beastly with me, Mildred. You know I’m awfully fond of you. I think I love you with all my heart. Won’t you change your mind? I was looking forward to this evening so awfully. You see, he hasn’t come, and he can’t care twopence about you really. Won’t you dine with me? I’ll get some more tickets, and we’ll go anywhere you like.”
“I tell you I won’t. It’s no good you talking. I’ve made up my mind, and when I make up my mind I keep to it.”
He looked at her for a moment. His heart was torn with anguish. People were hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and omnibuses rolled by noisily. He saw that Mildred’s eyes were wandering. She was afraid of missing Miller in the crowd.
“I can’t go on like this,” groaned Philip. “It’s too degrading. If I go now I go for good. Unless you’ll come with me tonight you’ll never see me again.”
“You seem to think that’ll be an awful thing for me. All I say is, good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Then good-bye.”
He nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his heart that she would call him back. At the next lamp-post he stopped and looked over his shoulder. He thought she might beckon to him—he was willing to forget everything, he was ready for any humiliation—but she had turned away, and apparently had ceased to trouble about him. He realised that she was glad to be quit of him.