“You are a fool to put her back up,” said Dunsford.
“I’m really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae,” replied
Philip.
But he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable with a woman she should take offence. When he asked for the bill, he hazarded a remark which he meant to lead further.
“Are we no longer on speaking terms?” he smiled.
“I’m here to take orders and to wait on customers. I’ve got nothing to say to them, and I don’t want them to say anything to me.”
She put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had to pay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting. Philip flushed with anger.
“That’s one in the eye for you, Carey,” said Dunsford, when they got outside.
“Ill-mannered slut,” said Philip. “I shan’t go there again.”
His influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their tea elsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt with. But the snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. If she had treated him with civility he would have been perfectly indifferent to her; but it was obvious that she disliked him rather than otherwise, and his pride was wounded. He could not suppress a desire to be even with her. He was impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but three or four days’ firmness, during which he would not go to the shop, did not help him to surmount it; and he came to the conclusion that it would be least trouble to see her. Having done so he would certainly cease to think of her. Pretexting an appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little ashamed of his weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop which he had vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the moment he came in and sat down at one of her tables. He expected her to make some reference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when she came up for his order she said nothing. He had heard her say to other customers:
“You’re quite a stranger.”
She gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to see whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he asked:
“Have you seen my friend tonight?”
“No, he’s not been in here for some days.”
He wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She gave him no opportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance of saying anything till he asked for his bill.
“Filthy weather, isn’t it?” he said.
It was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as that. He could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment.
“It don’t make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be in here all day.”
There was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. A sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent.
“I wish to God she’d say something really cheeky,” he raged to himself, “so that I could report her and get her sacked. It would serve her damned well right.”
LVI
He could not get her out of his mind. He laughed angrily at his own foolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little waitress said to him; but he was strangely humiliated. Though no one knew of the humiliation but Dunsford, and he had certainly forgotten, Philip felt that he could have no peace till he had wiped it out. He thought over what he had better do. He made up his mind that he would go to the shop every day; it was obvious that he had made a disagreeable impression on her, but he thought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care not to say anything at which the most susceptible person could be offended. All this he did, but it had no effect. When he went in and said good-evening she answered with the same words, but when once he omitted to say it in order to see whether she would say it first, she said nothing at all. He murmured in his heart an expression which though frequently applicable to members of the female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but with an unmoved face he ordered his tea. He made up his mind not to speak a word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. He promised himself that he would not go any more, but the next day at tea-time he grew restless. He tried to think of other things, but he had no command over his thoughts. At last he said desperately:
“After all there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go if I want to.”
The struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on for seven when he entered the shop.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” the girl said to him, when he sat down.
His heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. “I was detained. I couldn’t come before.”
“Cutting up people, I suppose?”
“Not so bad as that.”
“You are a stoodent, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
But that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and, since at that late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed herself in a novelette. This was before the time of the sixpenny reprints. There was a regular supply of inexpensive fiction written to order by poor hacks for the consumption of the illiterate. Philip was elated; she had addressed him of her own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would come and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. It would be a great comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. He looked at her. It was true that her profile was beautiful; it was extraordinary how English girls of that class had so often a perfection of outline which took your breath away, but it was as cold as marble; and the faint green of her delicate skin gave an impression of unhealthiness. All the waitresses were dressed alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron, cuffs, and a small cap. On a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket Philip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined the words with her lips as she read), and left it on the table when he went away. It was an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she smiled at him.
“I didn’t know you could draw,” she said.
“I was an art-student in Paris for two years.”
“I showed that drawing you left be’ind you last night to the manageress and she WAS struck with it. Was it meant to be me?”
“It was,” said Philip.
When she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him.
“I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very image of her,” she said.
That was the first time he had heard her name, and when he wanted his bill he called her by it.
“I see you know my name,” she said, when she came.
“Your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about that drawing.”
“She wants you to do one of her. Don’t you do it. If you once begin you’ll have to go on, and they’ll all be wanting you to do them.” Then without a pause, with peculiar inconsequence, she said: “Where’s that young fellow that used to come with you? Has he gone away?”
“Fancy your remembering him,” said Philip.
“He was a nice-looking young fellow.”
Philip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. He did not know what it was. Dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh complexion, and a beautiful smile. Philip thought of these advantages with envy.
“Oh, he’s in love,” said he, with a little laugh.
Philip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he limped home. She was quite friendly with him now. When opportunity arose he would offer to make a more finished sketch of her, he was sure she would like that; her face was interesting, the profile was lovely, and there was something curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour. He tried to think what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup; but, driving away that idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a yellow rosebud when you tore it to pieces before it had burst. He had no ill-feeling towards her now.
“She’s not a bad sort,” he murmured.
It
was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was doubtless his own fault; she had not meant to make herself disagreeable: he ought to be accustomed by now to making at first sight a bad impression on people. He was flattered at the success of his drawing; she looked upon him with more interest now that she was aware of this small talent. He was restless next day. He thought of going to lunch at the tea-shop, but he was certain there would be many people there then, and Mildred would not be able to talk to him. He had managed before this to get out of having tea with Dunsford, and, punctually at half past four (he had looked at his watch a dozen times), he went into the shop.
Mildred had her back turned to him. She was sitting down, talking to the German whom Philip had seen there every day till a fortnight ago and since then had not seen at all. She was laughing at what he said. Philip thought she had a common laugh, and it made him shudder. He called her, but she took no notice; he called her again; then, growing angry, for he was impatient, he rapped the table loudly with his stick. She approached sulkily.
“How d’you do?” he said.
“You seem to be in a great hurry.”
She looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so well.
“I say, what’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“If you’ll kindly give your order I’ll get what you want. I can’t stand talking all night.”
“Tea and toasted bun, please,” Philip answered briefly.
He was furious with her. He had The Star with him and read it elaborately when she brought the tea.
“If you’ll give me my bill now I needn’t trouble you again,” he said icily.
She wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to the German. Soon she was talking to him with animation. He was a man of middle height, with the round head of his nation and a sallow face; his moustache was large and bristling; he had on a tail-coat and gray trousers, and he wore a massive gold watch-chain. Philip thought the other girls looked from him to the pair at the table and exchanged significant glances. He felt certain they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. He detested Mildred now with all his heart. He knew that the best thing he could do was to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he could not bear to think that he had been worsted in the affair, and he devised a plan to show her that he despised her. Next day he sat down at another table and ordered his tea from another waitress. Mildred’s friend was there again and she was talking to him. She paid no attention to Philip, and so when he went out he chose a moment when she had to cross his path: as he passed he looked at her as though he had never seen her before. He repeated this for three or four days. He expected that presently she would take the opportunity to say something to him; he thought she would ask why he never came to one of her tables now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the loathing he felt for her. He knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could not help himself. She had beaten him again. The German suddenly disappeared, but Philip still sat at other tables. She paid no attention to him. Suddenly he realised that what he did was a matter of complete indifference to her; he could go on in that way till doomsday, and it would have no effect.
“I’ve not finished yet,” he said to himself.
The day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up said good-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week. His face was placid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of his heart. At that time the musical comedy had lately leaped into public favour, and he was sure that Mildred would be delighted to go to one.
“I say,” he said suddenly, “I wonder if you’d dine with me one night and come to The Belle of New York. I’ll get a couple of stalls.”
He added the last sentence in order to tempt her. He knew that when the girls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if some man took them, seldom to more expensive seats than the upper circle. Mildred’s pale face showed no change of expression.
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“When will you come?”
“I get off early on Thursdays.”
They made arrangements. Mildred lived with an aunt at Herne Hill. The play began at eight so they must dine at seven. She proposed that he should meet her in the second-class waiting-room at Victoria Station. She showed no pleasure, but accepted the invitation as though she conferred a favour. Philip was vaguely irritated.
LVII
Philip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the time which Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class waiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious, and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the hour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her. Philip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at the people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud.
“There you are. I thought you were never coming.”
“I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind to go back home again.”
“But you said you’d come to the second-class waiting-room.”
“I didn’t say any such thing. It isn’t exactly likely I’d sit in the second-class room when I could sit in the first is it?”
Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and they got into a cab.
“Where are we dining?” she asked.
“I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?”
“I don’t mind where we dine.”
She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and answered Philip’s attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore a long cloak of some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. They reached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round with satisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of the decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air.
“I’ve never been here before.”
She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that she wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was more elaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when it came her eyes sparkled.
“You are going it,” she said.
“Because I’ve ordered fiz?” he asked carelessly, as though he never drank anything else.
“I WAS surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you.” Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much to say; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. She listened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, and made no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two little jokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he got was when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length.
“I can’t stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself. Sometimes I’ve got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn’t think I know anything about.”
“What is that?” asked Philip.
“Well, I happen to know that she’s not above going to Eastbourne with a man for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married sister who goes there with her husband, and she’s seen her. She was staying at the same boarding-house, and she ‘ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for one she’s not married.”
Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that they did these things much better in France; but Mildred
enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously.
“This is the seventh time I’ve been,” she said, after the first act, “and
I don’t mind if I come seven times more.”
She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls. She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false hair.
“It is horrible, these West-end people,” she said. “I don’t know how they can do it.” She put her hand to her hair. “Mine’s all my own, every bit of it.”
She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:
“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself?”
“Rather.”
“Will you come out with me again one evening?”
“I don’t mind.”
He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference maddened him.
“That sounds as if you didn’t much care if you came or not.”
“Oh, if you don’t take me out some other fellow will. I need never want for men who’ll take me to the theatre.”
Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the booking-office.
“I’ve got my season,” she said.
“I thought I’d take you home as it’s rather late, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind if it gives you any pleasure.”
He took a single first for her and a return for himself.
“Well, you’re not mean, I will say that for you,” she said, when he opened the carriage-door.
Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 190