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‘I don’t know what you mean,’ answered Philip.
‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t talk.’
‘You bore me,’ said Philip.
‘Please yourself.’
Rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very
white, as he always became when he was moved, and his
heart beat violently. When Rose went away he felt suddenly
sick with misery. He did not know why he had answered in
that fashion. He would have given anything to be friends
with Rose. He hated to have quarrelled with him, and now
that he saw he had given him pain he was very sorry. But at
the moment he had not been master of himself. It seemed
that some devil had seized him, forcing him to say bitter
things against his will, even though at the time he wanted
to shake hands with Rose and meet him more than halfway.
The desire to wound had been too strong for him. He had
wanted to revenge himself for the pain and the humiliation
he had endured. It was pride: it was folly too, for he knew
that Rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bit-
terly. The thought came to him that he would go to Rose,
and say:
‘I say, I’m sorry I was such a beast. I couldn’t help it. Let’s
make it up.’
But he knew he would never be able to do it. He was
afraid that Rose would sneer at him. He was angry with
himself, and when Sharp came in a little while afterwards
he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him.
Philip had a fiendish instinct for discovering other people’s
raw spots, and was able to say things that rankled because

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