Often they quarrelled, and she would not speak to him for a while; but this always reduced him to subjection, and he crawled before her.
He was angry with himself for showing so little dignity.
He grew furiously jealous if he saw her speaking to any other man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed to be beside himself.
He would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and spend afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and remorseful.
Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for forgiveness.
"Don't be angry with me," he said. "I'm so awfully fond of you that I can't help myself."
"One of these days you'll go too far," she answered.
He was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made during her working-hours; but she would not let him.
"My aunt would think it so funny," she said.
He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let him see her aunt.
Mildred had represented her as the widow of a professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily conscious that the good woman could hardly be called distinguished.
Philip imagined that she was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman.
He knew that Mildred was a snob.
But he found no means by which he could indicate to her that he did not mind how common the aunt was.
Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him that a man had asked her to go to a play with him.
Philip turned pale, and his face grew hard and stern.
"You're not going?" he said.
"Why shouldn't I?
He's a very nice gentlemanly fellow."
"I'll take you anywhere you like."
"But that isn't the same thing.
I can't always go about with you.
Besides he's asked me to fix my own day, and I'll just go one evening when I'm not going out with you. It won't make any difference to you."
"If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you wouldn't dream of going."
"I don't know what you mean by gratitude.
If you're referring to the things you've given me you can have them back.
I don't want them."
Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.
"It's not very lively, always going about with you.
It's always do you love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it."
He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help himself.
"Oh, I like you all right," she would answer.
"Is that all?
I love you with all my heart."
"I'm not that sort, I'm not one to say much."
"If you knew how happy just one word would make me!"
"Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if they don't like it they can lump it."
But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked the question, answered:
"Oh, don't go on at that again."
Then he became sulky and silent.
He hated her.
And now he said:
"Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to come out with me at all."
"It's not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me to."
His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.
"You think I'm just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when there's no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go to hell.
Thank you, I'm about sick of being made a convenience."
"I'm not going to be talked to like that by anyone.
I'll just show you how much I want your dirty dinner."
She got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the restaurant.