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glance at Philip’s club-foot.
‘No,’ said Philip.
‘Pity. I’ve been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball.
I could have introduced you to some jolly girls.’
Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to
Barnes, Philip had remained in town, and late in the eve-
ning wandered through the West End till he found some
house at which there was a party. He stood among the lit-
tle group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching
the guests arrive, and he listened to the music that floated
through the window. Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold,
a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a moment to
get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they were in
love with one another, turned away and limped along the
street with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand
in that man’s place. He felt that no woman could ever really
look upon him without distaste for his deformity.
That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of
her without satisfaction. Before parting they had made an
arrangement that she should write to Charing Cross Post
Office till he was able to send her an address, and when he
went there he found three letters from her. She wrote on
blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip
wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible
woman, and her passionate expressions, because they re-
minded him of a French novel, left him cold. She upbraided
him for not having written, and when he answered he ex-
cused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not
quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring him-

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