and the power of their limbs and the
sweetness of the spirit: Philip had heard him say many fantastic,
rhetorical, and picturesque things on the subject. Now Athelny invited him
to come over for a day, he had certain meditations on Shakespeare and the
musical glasses which he desired to impart, and the children were
clamouring for a sight of Uncle Philip. Philip read the letter again in
the afternoon when he was sitting with Mildred on the beach. He thought of
Mrs. Athelny, cheerful mother of many children, with her kindly
hospitality and her good humour; of Sally, grave for her years, with funny
little maternal ways and an air of authority, with her long plait of fair
hair and her broad forehead; and then in a bunch of all the others, merry,
boisterous, healthy, and handsome. His heart went out to them. There was
one quality which they had that he did not remember to have noticed in
people before, and that was goodness. It had not occurred to him till now,
but it was evidently the beauty of their goodness which attracted him. In
theory he did not believe in it: if morality were no more than a matter of
convenience good and evil had no meaning. He did not like to be illogical,
but here was simple goodness, natural and without effort, and he thought
it beautiful. Meditating, he slowly tore the letter into little pieces; he
did not see how he could go without Mildred, and he did not want to go
with her.

It was very hot, the sky was cloudless, and they had been driven to a
shady corner. The baby was gravely playing with stones on the beach, and
now and then she crawled up to Philip and gave him one to hold, then took
it away again and placed it carefully down. She was playing a mysterious
and complicated game known only to herself. Mildred was asleep. She lay
with her head thrown back and her mouth slightly open; her legs were
stretched out, and her boots protruded from her petticoats in a grotesque
fashion. His eyes had been resting on her vaguely, but now he looked at
her with peculiar attention. He remembered how passionately he had loved
her, and he wondered why now he was entirely indifferent to her. The
change in him filled him with dull pain. It seemed to him that all he had
suffered had been sheer waste. The touch of her hand had filled him with
ecstasy; he had desired to enter into her soul so that he could share
every thought with her and every feeling; he had suffered acutely because,
when silence had fallen bet