he was with the rest of Athelny's huge
family. Now and then her indifference slightly irritated him. There was
something enigmatic in her.

When Philip gave her the necklace Athelny in his boisterous way insisted
that she must kiss him; but Sally reddened and drew back.

"No, I'm not going to," she said.

"Ungrateful hussy!" cried Athelny. "Why not?"

"I don't like being kissed by men," she said.

Philip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned Athelny's attention to
something else. That was never a very difficult thing to do. But evidently
her mother spoke of the matter later, for next time Philip came she took
the opportunity when they were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to
it.

"You didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when I wouldn't kiss
you?"

"Not a bit," he laughed.

"It's not because I wasn't grateful." She blushed a little as she uttered
the formal phrase which she had prepared. "I shall always value the
necklace, and it was very kind of you to give it me."

Philip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. She did all that
she had to do very competently, but seemed to feel no need of
conversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in her. One Sunday
afternoon when Athelny and his wife had gone out together, and Philip,
treated as one of the family, sat reading in the parlour, Sally came in
and sat by the window to sew. The girls' clothes were made at home and
Sally could not afford to spend Sundays in idleness. Philip thought she
wished to talk and put down his book.

"Go on reading," she said. "I only thought as you were alone I'd come and
sit with you."

"You're the most silent person I've ever struck," said Philip.

"We don't want another one who's talkative in this house," she said.

There was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact. But it
suggested to Philip that she measured her father, alas, no longer the hero
he was to her childhood, and in her mind joined together his entertaining
conversation and the thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into
their life; she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common
sense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she was perhaps
sometimes a little impatient with it. Philip looked at her as she bent
over her work; she was healthy, strong, and normal; it must be odd to see
her among the other girls in the shop with their flat chests and anaemic
faces. Mildred suffered from anaemia