She threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she was capable.
She flung it at him as though it were a blow.
"Cripple!"
XCVII
Philip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, and looking at his watch found it was nine o'clock.
He jumped out of bed and went into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with.
There was no sign of Mildred, and the things which she had used for her supper the night before still lay in the sink unwashed.
He knocked at her door.
"Wake up, Mildred.
It's awfully late."
She did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concluded that she was sulking.
He was in too great a hurry to bother about that.
He put some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always poured out the night before in order to take the chill off.
He presumed that Mildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the sitting-room.
She had done that two or three times when she was out of temper.
But he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if he wanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself.
He was irritated that she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slept himself.
There was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heard her moving about her room.
She was evidently getting up.
He made himself some tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which he ate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and along the street into the main road to catch his tram.
While his eyes sought out the newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the scene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, he could not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous, but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had been overwhelming.
He was angry with Mildred because she had forced him into that absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of her outburst and the filthy language she had used. He could not help flushing when he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
He had long known that when his fellows were angry with him they never failed to taunt him with his deformity.
He had seen men at the hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, but when they thought he was not looking.
He knew now that they did it from no wilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and because it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could never resign himself to it.
He was glad to throw himself into his work.
The ward seemed pleasant and friendly when he entered it.
The sister greeted him with a quick, business-like smile.
"You're very late, Mr. Carey."
"I was out on the loose last night."
"You look it."
"Thank you."
Laughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculous ulcers, and removed his bandages.
The boy was pleased to see him, and Philip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound.
Philip was a favourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he had gentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers were a little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods.
He lunched with his friends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter, with a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war.
Several men were going out, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had not had a hospital appointment.
Someone suggested that, if the war went on, in a while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the general opinion was that it would be over in a month. Now that Roberts was there things would get all right in no time.
This was Macalister's opinion too, and he had told Philip that they must watch their chance and buy just before peace was declared.
There would be a boom then, and they might all make a bit of money.
Philip had left with Macalister instructions to buy him stock whenever the opportunity presented itself.
His appetite had been whetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now to make a couple of hundred.
He finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to Kennington.
He wondered how Mildred would behave that evening.
It was a nuisance to think that she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions.
It was a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets of South London there was the languor of February; nature is restless then after the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and there is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its eternal activities.
Philip would have liked to drive on further, it was distasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but the desire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he smiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow of delight.
He was surprised, when he reached the house and looked up mechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light.
He went upstairs and knocked, but got no answer.
When Mildred went out she left the key under the mat and he found it there now.