The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London.  He passed a sweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in his shirt sleeves.  The assistants in relays went for their holidays.  In the evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band.  Growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind, recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity.  His whole desire now was set on his uncle’s death.  He kept on dreaming the same dream:  a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced the Vicar’s sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp.  When he awoke and found it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage.  He occupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time, with elaborate plans for the future.  In these he passed rapidly over the year which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified and dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set.  He read books about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and already he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like.  He saw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the Gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat in churches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt the mysterious painter held for him.  Athelny entered into his humour, and on Sunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philip should miss nothing that was noteworthy.  To cheat his impatience Philip began to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in Harrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises and puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificent phrases of Don Quixote.  Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philip learned a few sentences to help him on his journey.  Mrs. Athelny laughed at them.

“You two and your Spanish!” she said.  “Why don’t you do something useful?”

But Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at Christmas, stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father and Philip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand.  She thought her father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressed her opinion of Philip only through her father’s commendations.

“Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip,” she remarked to her brothers and sisters.

Thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa, and Athelny regaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the lad would make when he came back in uniform for his holidays.  As soon as Sally was seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker.  Athelny in his rhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were leaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the nest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it.  A shakedown and a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would never be closed to the troubles of his children.