“I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,” said Philip, with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, she’ll sleep with me. She always does.”
Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings. Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.
“In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t. I think you’re better looking than that.”
“Things are looking up,” laughed Philip. “You’ve never told me I was good-looking before.”
“I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks. I don’t like good-looking men. They’re too conceited for me.”
Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her large fringe.
“What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, there’s only a man and his wife living here. He’s out all day, and I never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to themselves. I’ve not spoken two words to either of them since I came.”
Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child. He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not understand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again.