"What is there I can do now?" she cried impatiently.
"Damn it all, you MUST try to get something."
He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly.
He tried to console her.
At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she promised to do all he advised.
He wrote a prescription, which he said he would leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity.
Getting up to go, he held out his hand.
"Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat."
But as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of his coat.
"Oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "I'm so afraid, don't leave me alone yet.
Phil, please.
There's no one else I can go to, you're the only friend I've ever had."
He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die.
Philip looked down.
Twice that woman had come into his life and made him wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons.
"I suppose I shall never really quite get over it," he said to himself.
What perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which made it uncomfortable for him to be near her.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Let's go out and dine together.
I'll pay."
He hesitated.
He felt that she was creeping back again into his life when he thought she was gone out of it for ever.
She watched him with sickening anxiety.
"Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now.
You've had your revenge.
If you leave me by myself now I don't know what I shall do."
"All right, I don't mind," he said, "but we shall have to do it on the cheap, I haven't got money to throw away these days."
She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road.
Philip had got out of the habit of eating at those hours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow.
They had a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer.
They sat opposite one another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in silence if Philip had not forced himself to talk.
In the bright light of the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an endless series, she looked old and haggard.
Philip was anxious to know about the child, but he had not the courage to ask.
At last she said:
"You know baby died last summer."
"Oh!" he said.
"You might say you're sorry."
"I'm not," he answered, "I'm very glad."
She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away
"You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you?
I always thought it funny like how you could see so much in another man's child."
When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her take a dose.
Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go back to Harrington Street.
He was hideously bored.
Philip went to see her every day.
She took the medicine he had prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill.
As she grew better she grew less despondent.
She talked more freely.
"As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right," she said. "I've had my lesson now and I mean to profit by it.
No more racketing about for yours truly."