After Mildred had cleared away the supper she went and stood at the window.
The street noises came up to them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of a barrel-organ in the distance.
"I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?" she asked him, with a wistful expression.
"I ought, but I don't know that I must. Why, d'you want me to do anything else?"
"I'd like to go out for a bit.
Couldn't we take a ride on the top of a tram?"
"If you like."
"I'll just go and put on my hat," she said joyfully.
The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors.
The baby was asleep and could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at night when she went out; it never woke.
She was in high spirits when she came back with her hat on.
She had taken the opportunity to put on a little rouge.
Philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint colour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and reproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her.
She laughed when she got out into the air.
The first tram they saw was going towards Westminster Bridge and they got on it.
Philip smoked his pipe, and they looked at the crowded street.
The shops were open, gaily lit, and people were doing their shopping for the next day.
They passed a music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:
"Oh, Philip, do let's go there.
I haven't been to a music-hall for months."
"We can't afford stalls, you know."
"Oh, I don't mind, I shall be quite happy in the gallery."
They got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors.
They got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery, and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room.
Mildred's eyes glistened.
She enjoyed herself thoroughly.
There was a simple-mindedness in her which touched Philip.
She was a puzzle to him.
Certain things in her still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault if he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give.
Under different circumstances she might have been a charming girl.
She was extraordinarily unfit for the battle of life.
As he watched her now in profile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he thought she looked strangely virginal.
He felt an overwhelming compassion for her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had caused him.
The smoky atmosphere made Philip's eyes ache, but when he suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to stay till the end.
He smiled and consented.
She took his hand and held it for the rest of the performance.
When they streamed out with the audience into the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the Westminster Bridge Road, looking at the people.
"I've not had such a good time as this for months," she said.
Philip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into his flat.
It was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude.
At last she grew tired and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got down and turned into their own street there was no one about.
Mildred slipped her arm through his.
"It's just like old times, Phil," she said.
She had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called him; and even now it gave him a curious pang.
He remembered how much he had wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought quite seriously of committing suicide.
It all seemed very long ago.
He smiled at his past self.
Now he felt nothing for Mildred but infinite pity.
They reached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room Philip lit the gas.
"Is the baby all right?" he asked.