Chapter 38
第三十八章
到了岁末，有一大堆的帐务要处理。菲利普跟着一个叫汤普逊的办事员到处奔波，从早到晚一成不变地干着一件事：把帐本上的开支项目一样样报给那个办事员听，让他核对，有时候还得把帐页上的一长串数字统加起来。他生来没有数学才能，只能一笔一笔慢慢往上加。汤普逊看到他错误百出，忍不住要发火。这位同事是个瘦长条儿，年岁在四十左右，脸带菜色，乌黑的头发，乱蓬蓬的胡须，双颊凹陷，鼻子两侧沟沟壑壑，皱纹很深。他不喜欢菲利普，因为他是个练习生。这小子只不过因为付得起三百个畿尼，能在这儿悠哉悠哉混上五年，日后说不定就有机会飞黄腾达；而他自己呢，尽管有经验，有能力，一生一世却只能当个月薪三十五先令的小办事员，永无出头之日。他儿女成群，被生活担子压得喘不过气来，所以养成个火爆脾气，动辄发怒。他自觉在菲利普身上辨察出一股傲气，颇有几分不平之意，他因为菲利普比自己多念了几年书，常报以冷嘲热讽。他讥笑菲利普的发音；他不能原谅菲利普的语音里不带伦敦腔，所以在同菲利普讲话时，故意把h这个字母的音发得特别响。起初，他的态度仅仅是生硬，惹人反感罢了。可是一等他发现菲利普压根儿没有当会计师的禀赋，就专以出他的洋相为乐事。他的攻击又粗鲁又笨拙，却足以伤害菲利普的自尊心；菲利普为了自卫，违反自己的本性，硬摆出一副恃才傲物的神气。
"今儿个早上洗澡了？"一天，菲利普上班迟到了，汤普逊就这么问一句。现在，菲利普不再像早先那样规矩守时了。
"是啊。你呢？"
"没有，我又不是什么贵人，不过是个小职员罢了。我只在星期六晚上洗个澡。"
"我想，这就是你在星期一比平时更惹人讨厌的缘故吧。"
"今天是否劳你驾，把几笔款子数目简单加一加？恐怕这对一个懂拉丁文和希腊文的上等人来说，过于苛求了吧。"
"你想说句把挖苦活，可说得不大高明哪。"
不过菲利普自己肚里雪亮，那些薪俸菲薄、举止粗鲁的职员，个个比门己强，更顶事。有那么一两回，连古德沃西先生也沉不住气了。
"到现在你实在也该有点长进罗，"他说，"你甚至还不如那个勤工来得伶俐。"
菲利普绷着脸听着。他不喜欢让人责怪。有时候古德沃西先生不满意他誊写的帐目，又叫别人去重抄一遍，这也使他感到下不了台。起初，由于这工作还算新鲜，好歹还凑合得过去，可现在越来越惹人厌烦，再加上他发现自己又没有这方面的才能，不由得恨起这工作来了。分配给他的份内差事，他常常撇在一边不管，信手在事务所的信笺上勾勒涂画，白白糟蹋时间。他替华生画了各种不同姿态的素描画，他的绘画才能给了华生很深的印象。一天华生心血来潮，把这些画拿回家去，第二天上班时，带来了他全家人的赞誉。
"我奇怪你干吗没当个画家呢，"他说。"话得说回来，靠这种玩意儿当然发不了财的。"
隔了两三天，卡特先生恰巧到华生家吃饭，这些画也拿给他看了。第二天早晨，他把菲利普叫到跟前。菲利普难得见到他，对他颇有几分惧意。
"听着，年轻人，你下班后于些什么我管不着，但是我看到了你的那些个画，都是画在事务所的信笺上的，而且古德沃西先生也说你现在有点吊儿郎当。作为一个见习会计师，你干事不巴结点，将来是搞不出什么名堂来的。这是门体面的行当，我们正在把一批有才于的人士网罗进来，但是要干这一行就得……"他想找个比较贴切的字眼来结束他的谈话，但一时又找不到，最后只好草草收场："要于这一行就得巴结些。"
要不是原来有约在先--一他如果不喜欢这工作，可以在一年后离开，并可收回所付合同费用的半数--说不定他就得硬着头皮干下去了。他觉得自己适合于干点更有出息的工作，而不是整天老是算算帐。说来也真丢人。这种低贱的事儿偏偏干得这么糟。同汤普逊的怄气斗嘴，更是搞得他心烦意乱。三月间，华生在事务所的一年见习期满了，虽说菲利普并不怎么喜欢这个人，但见他走了又不免有点惋惜。事务所的其他办事员对他们两个都没有好感，因为他俩所属的阶层要稍胜他们一筹，这个事实无形之中把他俩捆在一条船上了。菲利普一想到还得同这批浑浑噩噩的家伙打四个年头的交道，人都透心凉了。他原以为到了伦敦会过上如花似锦的生活，到头来却是一无所获。现在他痛恨这座城市。他举目无亲，什么人也不认识，也不知道该如何去同他人结交。他已厌倦了独个儿到处逛荡。他渐渐感到，这种生活没法再忍受下去。晚上他躺在床上，心里在想，要是永远不再见到那间肮脏的事务所，不再见到里面的那些家伙，从此离开这个犹如死水一潭的住所，那该多快活。
开春后，有件事使他大为扫兴。海沃德原说要到伦敦来消度春光，菲利普翘首企足，恨不得马上能同他见面。他最近看了不少书，想得也很多，脑子里塞满了各种各样的念头，很想找个人谈谈，而他所认识的人里面，谁也不对抽象的事物感兴趣。他想到很快有个知音来同他开怀畅谈，喜欢得什么似的。哪知海沃德却来信说，意大利今年春光明媚，比以往哪年都可爱，实在舍不得从那儿跑开。这好似给菲利普当头浇了一盆凉水。他信中还问菲利普，干吗不到意大利来。看世界如此多娇，硬把自己关在一间办公室里，磋路青春，何苦来着？信里接着写道：
我真想不通，那种生活你怎么受得了的。我现在只要一想到舰队街和林肯旅社，就恶心得直打哆嗦。世界上只有两件东西使我们的生活值得苟且，这就是爱情和艺术。我无法想象你竟能龟缩在办公室里，埋头伏案于帐册之中。你是不是还头戴礼帽，手拿雨伞和小黑包？我总觉得你我应当把生命视作一场冒险，应当让宝石般的火焰在胸中熊熊燃烧。做人就应该冒风险，应该赴汤蹈火，履险如夷。你为什么不去巴黎学艺术呢？我一向认为你是有艺术才华的。
最近一个时期，菲利普反复盘算着这种可能性，而海沃德的建议恰好与他的考虑不谋而合。一上来，这个念头着实使他吃了一惊，但他又没法不朝这方面想。经过反复思考，他觉得这是摆脱目前可悲处境的唯一出一路。他们都认为他有才华：在海德堡，人们夸奖他的水彩画；威尔金森小姐更是赞不绝口，说他的画很逗人爱；甚至像华生一家那样的陌生人，也不能不为他的速写所折服。《波希米亚人的生涯卜书留给他的印象可谓深矣。他把这本书也带到伦敦来了，逢到心情极度压抑的时候，只要看上几页，万般愁思顿作烟云散，恍惚已置身于那些令人销魂的小阁楼里，罗道夫他们在那儿唱歌，跳舞，谈情说爱。他开始向往巴黎，就像从前向往伦敦一样，不怕再经历第二次的幻灭。他渴望罗曼蒂克的生活，渴望美和爱情，而所有这一切，似乎在巴黎全能享受到。他酷爱绘画，为什么他就不能画得同他人一样出色呢？他写信向威尔金森小姐打听，他要是住在巴黎生活费用需要多少。她回信说，一年八十英镑足以应付了。她热情支持他的计划，说他有才情，不该埋没在办公室里。她颇富戏剧性地说：明明可以成为大艺术家的人，有谁甘心当一辈子小办事员呢？她恳求菲利普要有自信，这才是最关键的。然而，菲利普生性谨慎。海沃德奢谈什么做人应该冒风险，他当然可以这么说罗，他手里那些镀有金边的股票，每年给他生出三百镑的利息，而他菲利普的全部财产，充其量也不过一千八百镑。他举棋不定。
事有凑巧，一天古德沃西先生突然问他是否想去巴黎。该事务所替圣奥诺雷区的一家旅馆管理帐务，那是家由某英国公司开设的旅馆，古德沃西先生和一名办事员每年要去那儿两次。那个经常去的办事员碰巧病倒了，而事务所内工作很紧张，一时又抽不出别的人手。古德沃西先生想到了菲利普，因为这儿有他没他无所谓，况且契约上也规定他有权要求承担件把最能体现本行业乐趣的差事。菲利普自然是喜出望外。
"白天得忙一整天，"古德沃西先生说，"但是到了晚上就自由啦。巴黎毕竟是巴黎嘛。"他狡黠地微微一笑。"旅馆里的人待我们很周到，一日三餐分文不取，咱们一个子儿也不必花。所以我可喜欢上巴黎呢--让别人替咱掏腰包。"
抵达加来港时，菲利普见到一大群脚夫在不住指手划脚，他的心也随着跳荡了起来。
"这才是真正的生活呢，"他自言自语说。
火车在乡间田野上疾驶，他目不转睛地凝望窗外。他很喜欢那一片片起伏的沙丘，那沙丘的色调，似乎比他生平所见的任何景物都更为赏心悦目；那一道道沟渠，还有那一行行连绵不绝的白杨树，看得他入了迷。他们出了巴黎的北火车站，坐上一辆破破烂烂、不住吱嘎作响的出租马车，在碎石路上颠簸向前。异国的空气犹如芳醇，菲利普一口一口吸着，陶然忘情，几乎忍不住要纵声呼喊起来。他们来到旅馆时，只见经理已在门日恭候。经理胖墩墩的，一脸和气，说的英语还算过得去。他同古德沃西先生是老朋友了，他嘘寒问暖，热乎极了。他邀他们在经理专用雅室里进餐，经理太太也出席作陪。满席佳肴美酒，菲利普似乎还从未尝到过像beefsteak aux pommes那样鲜美可口的菜肴，也从未喝过像vin ordinaire那样醇香扑鼻的美酒呐。
对于古德沃西先生这样一个循规蹈矩、道貌岸然的当家人来说，法国首都乃是酒色之徒恣意行乐的天堂。第二天上午他问经理，眼下可有什么"够味"的东西能饱饱眼福。他深得巴黎之行的乐趣，说不时来这儿走一遭，可以防止脑瓜儿"生锈"。晚上，一天的工作结束了，吃过饭之后，他就带着菲利普到红磨坊和情人游乐场去。当他捕捉到那些淫秽场面时，那对小眼睛顿时忽溜忽溜放光，嘴角也禁不住浮起一丝狡猾的淫笑。那些专为外国人安排的寻欢作乐场所，他都--一跑遍了。事后，他又感叹一句：堂堂一个国家，竟放纵这类事儿，到头来不会有好结果的。有一回观看一出小型歌舞剧，台上出现了一个几乎一丝不挂的女伶，他用胳膊肘轻轻捣了一下菲利普，接着还指给他看那些在剧场内四下招摇的体态丰满、身材高大的巴黎名妓。他领给菲利普看的，是个庸俗低级的巴黎，但是菲利普却用一双被幻觉蒙住的眼睛，看着这个扑朔迷离的城市。一清早，他匆匆出了旅馆，来到爱丽舍田园大街，伫立在协和广场边上。时值六月，空气清新柔和，整个巴黎像抹了一层银粉似地清澈明亮。菲利普感到自己的心飞到了人群之中。他想，这儿才是他梦寐以求的浪漫之乡。
他们在巴黎呆了将近一周，于星期日离开。当菲利普深夜回到巴恩斯的暗淡寓所时，他已最后拿定了主意。他将解约赴巴黎学画。不过为了不让人觉得他不明事理，他决计在事务所呆满一年再走。到八月中旬他有两周假期，临走之前他要对赫伯特·卡特讲明，自己无意再回事务所。尽管菲利普可以强迫自己每天到事务所上班应卯，却没法叫自己对工作发生兴趣，哪怕只是装装门面。他脑子里无时不在想着将来。一过七月半，工作开始清闲下来，他借口要应付第一次考试，得去听业务讲座，经常不上班。他利用这些时间跑国家美术馆。他翻阅各种有关巴黎和绘画的书籍，埋头研读罗斯金的论著，另外还看了瓦萨里写的许多画家传记。他特别欣赏高里季奥的一生经历；他想象自己伫立在某幅不朽杰作跟前大声呼喊：Anch'io son'pittore。现在他不再游移不定，深信自己是块做大画家的料子。
"事到如今，我也只能试试自己的运气了，"他自言自语说。"人生贵在冒险嘛。"
八月中旬总算盼到了。卡特先生这个月在苏格兰消夏，所内一切事务由主管员全权处理。自巴黎之行以来，古德沃西先生似乎对菲利普有了几分好感，而菲利普想想反正自己很快就要远走高飞，对这个可笑的小老头也总忍着点，不多所计较。
"凯里，你明天就要去休假了？"傍晚下班时，古德沃西先生对他说。
一整天菲利普不断对自己念叨：这可是自己最后一次坐在这间可恨的办公室里了。
"是啊，我的第一年见习期算熬到头了。"
"恐怕你干得并不怎么出色呢。卡特先生对你很不满意。"
"我对卡特先生更不满意哩，"菲利普轻松地回敬了一句。
"凯里，我觉得你不该用这种腔调说话。"
"我不打算回来了。咱们有约在先，要是我不喜欢会计师的工作，卡特先生愿意把我所付的见习合同费用退还我一半，我只要呆满一年就可以歇手不干。"
"我劝你三思而行，别这么仓促作出决定。"
"早在十个月以前，我就开始讨厌这儿的一切，讨厌这儿的工作，讨厌这间办公室。我讨厌伦敦。我宁可在街头扫地，也不愿再在这儿混日子。"
"好吧，说实在的我也觉得你不适合于干会计师这一行。"
"再见了，"菲利普边说边伸出手来。"我得谢谢你对我的关心。如果我给你们添了麻烦，还请多多包涵。我差不多打一开始就知道自己是干不好的。"
"好吧，要是你果真主意定了，那就再见吧。不知你今后作何打算。要是你有机会上这一带来，不妨请进来看看我们。"
菲利普呵呵一笑。
"恐怕我的话很不中听，不过实话实说，我打心底里希望以后别再见到你们之中的任何一位。"
At the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went to various places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day monotonously calling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimes he was given long pages of figures to add up. He had never had a head for figures, and he could only do this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at his mistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with black hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines on each side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he was an articled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred guineas and keep himself for five years Philip had the chance of a career; while he, with his experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than a clerk at thirty-five shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man, oppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he fancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was better educated than himself, and he mocked at Philip’s pronunciation; he could not forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he talked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner was merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no gift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks were gross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he assumed an attitude of superiority which he did not feel.
‘Had a bath this morning?’ Thompson said when Philip came to the office late, for his early punctuality had not lasted.
‘Yes, haven’t you?’
‘No, I’m not a gentleman, I’m only a clerk. I have a bath on Saturday night.’
‘I suppose that’s why you’re more than usually disagreeable on Monday.’
‘Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? I’m afraid it’s asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and Greek.’
‘Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy.’
But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr. Goodworthy grew impatient with him.
‘You really ought to be able to do better than this by now,’ he said. ‘You’re not even as smart as the office-boy.’
Philip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr. Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. At first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began to hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that was given him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper. He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson was impressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the drawings home, and he came back next day with the praises of his family.
‘I wonder you didn’t become a painter,’ he said. ‘Only of course there’s no money in it.’
It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the Watsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sent for Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him.
‘Look here, young fellow, I don’t care what you do out of office-hours, but I’ve seen those sketches of yours and they’re on office-paper, and Mr. Goodworthy tells me you’re slack. You won’t do any good as a chartered accountant unless you look alive. It’s a fine profession, and we’re getting a very good class of men in it, but it’s a profession in which you have to...’ he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, ‘in which you have to look alive.’
Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the money paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something better than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill something which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson got on his nerves. In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip, though he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. The fact that the other clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of union. When Philip thought that he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows his heart sank. He had expected wonderful things from London and it had given him nothing. He hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by himself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a life. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from those drab lodgings.
A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill with someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not bear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. What was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the world was beautiful? The letter proceeded.
I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln’s Inn now with a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world that make life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag? My feeling is that one should look upon life as an adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go to Paris and study art? I always thought you had talent.
The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time had been vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first, but he could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. They all thought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours, Miss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing; even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his sketches. La Vie de Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to London and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he had thought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned for romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all. He had a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well as anybody else? He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in Paris. She told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project. She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would be a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and she besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. But Philip had a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk of taking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities; Philip’s entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds. He hesitated.
Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he would like to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the Faubourg St. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a year Mr. Goodworthy and a clerk went over. The clerk who generally went happened to be ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away. Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of the business. Philip was delighted.
‘You’ll ‘ave to work all day,’ said Mr. Goodworthy, ‘but we get our evenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris.’ He smiled in a knowing way. ‘They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so it don’t cost one anything. That’s the way I like going to Paris, at other people’s expense.’
When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating porters his heart leaped.
‘This is the real thing,’ he said to himself.
He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars. When they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the cobbled streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from shouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin ordinaire, which were set before them.
To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles, the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene. He asked the manager next morning what there was to be seen that was ‘thick.’ He thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you from growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and they had dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. His little eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought out the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come to no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged Philip when at some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. It was a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes blinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of the hotel and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde. It was June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. Philip felt his heart go out to the people. Here he thought at last was romance.
They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when Philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that no one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till his year was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in August, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had no intention of returning. But though Philip could force himself to go to the office every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the work. His mind was occupied with the future. After the middle of July there was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to lectures for his first examination. The time he got in this way he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and books about painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari’s lives of the painters. He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself standing before some great masterpiece and crying: Anch’ io son’ pittore. His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in him the makings of a great painter.
‘After all, I can only try,’ he said to himself. ‘The great thing in life is to take risks.’
At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month in Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr. Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look upon the funny little man with tolerance.
‘You’re going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?’ he said to him in the evening.
All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he would ever sit in that hateful office.
‘Yes, this is the end of my year.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve not done very well. Mr. Carter’s very dissatisfied with you.’
‘Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter,’ returned Philip cheerfully.
‘I don’t think you should speak like that, Carey.’
‘I’m not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn’t like accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my articles and I could chuck it at the end of a year.’
‘You shouldn’t come to such a decision hastily.’
‘For ten months I’ve loathed it all, I’ve loathed the work, I’ve loathed the office, I loathe Loudon. I’d rather sweep a crossing than spend my days here.’
‘Well, I must say, I don’t think you’re very fitted for accountancy.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Philip, holding out his hand. ‘I want to thank you for your kindness to me. I’m sorry if I’ve been troublesome. I knew almost from the beginning I was no good.’
‘Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don’t know what you’re going to do, but if you’re in the neighbourhood at any time come in and see us.’
Philip gave a little laugh.
‘I’m afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart that I shall never set eyes on any of you again.’