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XXXIII

hilip could not get Miss Wilkinson’s story out of his
Phead. It was clear enough what she meant even though
she cut it short, and he was a little shocked. That sort of thing
was all very well for married women, he had read enough
French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule,
but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father
was a clergyman. Then it struck him that the art-student
probably was neither the first nor the last of her lovers, and
he gasped: he had never looked upon Miss Wilkinson like
that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to
her. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he
doubted what he read in books, and he was angry that such
wonderful things never happened to him. It was humiliat-
ing that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her of
his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to tell.
It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was
not sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped
in vice; women were full of intuition, he had read that, and
she might easily discover that he was fibbing. He blushed
scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve.
Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather
tired voice; but her songs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard,
and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip; and together they
spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered if he

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