The set was arranged without her, but presently Mrs. Carey called him.
"Philip, you've hurt Emily's feelings. She's gone to her room and she's crying."
"What about?"
"Oh, something about a duffer's set.
Do go to her, and say you didn't mean to be unkind, there's a good boy."
"All right."
He knocked at Miss Wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer went in.
He found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping.
He touched her on the shoulder.
"I say, what on earth's the matter?"
"Leave me alone.
I never want to speak to you again."
"What have I done?
I'm awfully sorry if I've hurt your feelings.
I didn't mean to.
I say, do get up."
"Oh, I'm so unhappy.
How could you be cruel to me?
You know I hate that stupid game.
I only play because I want to play with you."
She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick look in the glass sank into a chair.
She made her handkerchief into a ball and dabbed her eyes with it.
"I've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man—oh, what a fool I was—and you have no gratitude.
You must be quite heartless.
How could you be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar girls.
We've only got just over a week.
Can't you even give me that?"
Philip stood over her rather sulkily.
He thought her behaviour childish.
He was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before strangers.
"But you know I don't care twopence about either of the O'Connors.
Why on earth should you think I do?"
Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief.
Her tears had made marks on her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged.
Her white dress did not suit her very well just then.
She looked at Philip with hungry, passionate eyes.
"Because you're twenty and so's she," she said hoarsely. "And I'm old."
Philip reddened and looked away.
The anguish of her tone made him feel strangely uneasy.
He wished with all his heart that he had never had anything to do with Miss Wilkinson.
"I don't want to make you unhappy," he said awkwardly. "You'd better go down and look after your friends.
They'll wonder what has become of you."
"All right."
He was glad to leave her.
The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip.
He wanted to talk of nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson to tears.
At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much.
She never ceased reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which he could never repay.
He was willing to acknowledge this since she made a point of it, but he did not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to him.
He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call.