“Yes, I love you with all my heart.”
“Then why shouldn’t we have a good time while we’ve got the chance? You see, it can’t matter now.”
He released himself from her.
“You don’t understand. I’ve been sick with love for you ever since I saw you, but now—that man. I’ve unfortunately got a vivid imagination. The thought of it simply disgusts me.”
“You are funny,” she said.
He took her hand again and smiled at her.
“You mustn’t think I’m not grateful. I can never thank you enough, but you see, it’s just stronger than I am.”
“You are a good friend, Philip.”
They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that they should dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted some persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment. At last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and when she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him to take her to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had so often been; he was infinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it. She grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded. The Burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. Philip thought it safe to speak to her of the future.
“I suppose you haven’t got a brass farthing, have you?” he asked, when an opportunity presented itself.