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‘Where’s Sally?’
‘Here I am, mother.’
She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the
wood fire leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face.
Of late Philip had only seen her in the trim frocks she had
taken to since she was at the dressmaker’s, and there was
something very charming in the print dress she wore now,
loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and
showed her strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet.
‘You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story,’ said Philip, as
he shook hands with her.
‘She’s the belle of the hop-fields,’ said Athelny. ‘My word,
if the Squire’s son sees you he’ll make you an offer of mar-
riage before you can say Jack Robinson.’
‘The Squire hasn’t got a son, father,’ said Sally.
She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip
made room for her beside him. She looked wonderful in the
night lit by wood fires. She was like some rural goddess, and
you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom old Herrick
had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple,
bread and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer
for Mr. and Mrs. Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hun-
grily, praised loudly all he ate. He flung words of scorn at
Lucullus and piled invectives upon Brillat-Savarin.
‘There’s one thing one can say for you, Athelny,’ said his
wife, ‘you do enjoy your food and no mistake!’
‘Cooked by your hand, my Betty,’ he said, stretching out
an eloquent forefinger.
Philip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily