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window. It was dark. He did not venture to ask if she was
back. He was confident in her promise. But there was no
letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day
he called, the maid told him she had not arrived. He could
not understand it. He knew that Griffiths would have been
obliged to go home the day before, for he was to be best man
at a wedding, and Mildred had no money. He turned over
in his mind every possible thing that might have happened.
He went again in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to
dine with him that evening as calmly as though the events
of the last fortnight had not happened. He mentioned the
place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping
against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for
an hour she did not come. On Wednesday morning he was
ashamed to ask at the house and sent a messenger-boy with
a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but in an hour
the boy came back with Philip’s letter unopened and the an-
swer that the lady had not returned from the country. Philip
was beside himself. The last deception was more than he
could bear. He repeated to himself over and over again that
he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to Griffiths this new dis-
appointment, he hated him so much that he knew what was
the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a
joy it would be to come upon him on a dark night and stick
a knife into his throat, just about the carotid artery, and
leave him to die in the street like a dog. Philip was out of
his senses with grief and rage. He did not like whiskey, but
he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed drunk on the
Tuesday and on the Wednesday night.

Of Human Bondage