He entered, sick with apprehension.
The waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, with an expression on her face of real distress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after all."
"Why?" said Philip.
"Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's not my fault.
My aunt was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so I must go and sit with her.
She can't be left alone, can she?"
"It doesn't matter.
I'll see you home instead."
"But you've got the tickets.
It would be a pity to waste them."
He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up.
"What are you doing that for?"
"You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself, do you?
I only took seats there for your sake."
"You can't see me home if that's what you mean?"
"You've made other arrangements."
"I don't know what you mean by that.
You're just as selfish as all the rest of them.
You only think of yourself.
It's not my fault if my aunt's queer."
She quickly wrote out his bill and left him.
Philip knew very little about women, or he would have been aware that one should accept their most transparent lies.
He made up his mind that he would watch the shop and see for certain whether Mildred went out with the German.
He had an unhappy passion for certainty.
At seven he stationed himself on the opposite pavement.
He looked about for Miller, but did not see him.
In ten minutes she came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he took her to the Shaftesbury Theatre.
It was obvious that she was not going home.
She saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, and then came straight up to him.
"What are you doing here?" she said.
"Taking the air," he answered.
"You're spying on me, you dirty little cad.
I thought you was a gentleman."
"Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?" he murmured.
There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse.
He wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him.
"I suppose I can change my mind if I like.
I'm not obliged to come out with you.
I tell you I'm going home, and I won't be followed or spied upon."
"Have you seen Miller today?"
"That's no business of yours.
In point of fact I haven't, so you're wrong again."
"I saw him this afternoon.
He'd just come out of the shop when I went in."
"Well, what if he did?
I can go out with him if I want to, can't I?
I don't know what you've got to say to it."
"He's keeping you waiting, isn't he?"
"Well, I'd rather wait for him than have you wait for me.