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‘I say, won’t you come to the studio and have a talk?’
‘No,’ said Philip.
‘Why not?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
He saw the pain come into Lawson’s eyes, he could not
help it, he was sorry, but he had to think of himself; he
could not bear the thought of discussing his situation, he
could endure it only by determining resolutely not to think
about it. He was afraid of his weakness if once he began
to open his heart. Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to
the places where he had been miserable: he remembered the
humiliation he had endured when he had waited in that stu-
dio, ravenous with hunger, for Lawson to offer him a meal,
and the last occasion when he had taken the five shillings
off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he recalled
those days of utter abasement.
‘Then look here, come and dine with me one night.
Choose your own evening.’
Philip was touched with the painter’s kindness. All sorts
of people were strangely kind to him, he thought.
‘It’s awfully good of you, old man, but I’d rather not.’ He
held out his hand. ‘Good-bye.’
Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexpli-
cable, took his hand, and Philip quickly limped away. His
heart was heavy; and, as was usual with him, he began to
reproach himself for what he had done: he did not know
what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered
friendship. But he heard someone running behind him
and presently Lawson’s voice calling him; he stopped and

Of Human Bondage