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and he did not see how he could break it. She answered that
she did not wish to force herself on him, it was quite evident
that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt, and
she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her
kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he
saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive
reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and imploring her
to come; but it was with relief that he received her answer in
which she said that she found it would be impossible for her
to get away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank:
he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would
contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would
make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with
what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from
day to day, and then another letter would come, saying she
was ill and lonely and miserable.
‘I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with her,’ he
said.
He admired Watson because he arranged these things so
easily. The young man had been engaged in an intrigue with
a girl who played in touring companies, and his account of
the affair filled Philip with envious amazement. But after
a time Watson’s young affections changed, and one day he
described the rupture to Philip.
‘I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I
just told her I’d had enough of her,’ he said.
‘Didn’t she make an awful scene?’ asked Philip.
‘The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good
trying on that sort of thing with me.’