Philip, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had told him the details of
his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast when
they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the
scene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got
out of his difficulties so easily.
"It's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman," he
remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of a nuisance to get out of it."
Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in
managing the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He thought
of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in himself a real
satisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his
part that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own
disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.
But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She
wrote:
Dearest,
I'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the
afternoon as usual. I love you. Your Norah.
His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to
Griffiths and showed it to him.
"You'd better leave it unanswered," said he.
"Oh, I can't," cried Philip. "I should be miserable if I thought of her
waiting and waiting. You don't know what it is to be sick for the
postman's knock. I do, and I can't expose anybody else to that torture."
"My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without somebody
suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is, it doesn't
last very long."
Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer; and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she was going to be married. He did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced then.
"If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her," said
Griffiths.
"I can't do that."
He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with
Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that he
had no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at seeing
those things.
"You might help me," he said to Griffiths.
"My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. People do get over these
things, you know. She probably isn't so wrapped up in you as you think, either. One's always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one's inspired other people with."
He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.
"Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell her
the thing's over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it. It'll
hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you
try half-hearted ways."
Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:
My dear Norah,
I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things
remain where we left them on Saturday. I don't think there's any use in
letting these things drag on when they've ceased to be amusing. You told
me to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye. Philip Carey.
He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it. Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not say what he felt.
"I think that'll do the trick," he said.
Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for he
imagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received his
letter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same
time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief
seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart
leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's
work at the hospital was over.
When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner
put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.
"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour."
It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke
gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to
indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.