HE had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was to come there as soon
as she was released from the shop and had agreed to lunch with him. Two days had passed since
he had seen her, and his exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in the
feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to himself exactly what he would say
to her and how he should say it. Now his impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South
and had in his pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "
Sacking the mumpish fool. When will
you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun
which made the light dance in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance,
and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his
heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She
had the same figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so characteristic of
her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the
woman turned, he saw it was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with
a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved, but it was not only relief that he
felt; it was disappointment too; he was seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that
passion? At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a strange, desperate thirst
for that vile woman would always linger. That love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he
would never, never quite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire.
But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously
formed themselves into a smile. He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the
first room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always comforted him to get among
pictures. He looked at none in particular, but allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their
lines, to work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be pleasant to take her away
from that London in which she seemed an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and
azaleas; he had learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and he was sure
that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to
meet her. She was in black, with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They shook
hands.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?"
"Not very."
"Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?"
"If you like."
They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having her near him. He was warmed by
her radiant health. A glow of life seemed like an aureole to shine about her.
"Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile.
"Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm."
"Was it?"
"Aren't you glad?"
An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally's suspicion was well-founded; it had
never occurred to him for an instant that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly
overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never
be realised. He was free once more. Free! He need give up none of his projects, and life still was in