“You must ask me again then,” said Philip.
“You mustn’t take any notice of what father
says,” remarked Sally, with a smile.
“She’s a most self-possessed young woman,”
added her parent.
They had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while
Mrs. Athelny was putting the children to bed; and
when Philip went into the kitchen to bid her good-night
(she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading
The Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come
again.
“There’s always a good dinner on Sundays
so long as Athelny’s in work,” she said,
“and it’s a charity to come and talk to
him.”
On the following Saturday Philip received a postcard
from Athelny saying that they were expecting him to
dinner next day; but fearing their means were not
such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip
wrote back that he would only come to tea. He
bought a large plum cake so that his entertainment
should cost nothing. He found the whole family
glad to see him, and the cake completed his conquest
of the children. He insisted that they should
all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal
was noisy and hilarious.
Soon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny’s
every Sunday. He became a great favourite with
the children, because he was simple and unaffected
and because it was so plain that he was fond of them.
As soon as they heard his ring at the door one of
them popped a head out of window to make sure it was
he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously
to let him in. They flung themselves into his
arms. At tea they fought for the privilege of
sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him
Uncle Philip.
Athelny was very communicative, and little by little
Philip learned the various stages of his life.
He had followed many occupations, and it occurred
to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything
he attempted. He had been on a tea plantation
in Ceylon and a traveller in America for Italian wines;
his secretaryship of the water company in Toledo had
lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been
a journalist and for some time had worked as police-court
reporter for an evening paper; he had been sub-editor
of a paper in the Midlands and editor of another on
the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gathered
amusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure
in his own powers of entertainment. He had read
a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which were
unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse
knowledge with child-like enjoyment of the amazement
of his hearers. Three or four years before abject
poverty had driven him to take the job of press-representative
to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the
work unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly,
the firmness of his wife and the needs of his family
had made him stick to it.
