They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled in dark oak.  In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de hieraje.  They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, and leathern seats.  They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable.  The only other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very finely carved.  There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames:  though gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they had a glow of passion.  There was nothing in the room of any value, but the effect was lovely.  It was magnificent and yet austere.  Philip felt that it offered the very spirit of old Spain.  Athelny was in the middle of showing him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair hanging down her back, came in.

“Mother says dinner’s ready and waiting and I’m to bring it in as soon as you sit down.”

“Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally.”  He turned to Philip.  “Isn’t she enormous?  She’s my eldest.  How old are you, Sally?”

“Fifteen, father, come next June.”

“I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her Sally and her brother Pudding-Face.”

The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed.  She was well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad forehead.  She had red cheeks.

“Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey before he sits down.”

“Mother says she’ll come in after dinner.  She hasn’t washed herself yet.”

“Then we’ll go in and see her ourselves.  He mustn’t eat the Yorkshire pudding till he’s shaken the hand that made it.”

Philip followed his host into the kitchen.  It was small and much overcrowded.  There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the stranger entered.  There was a large table in the middle and round it, eager for dinner, were seated Athelny’s children.  A woman was standing at the oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one.

“Here’s Mr. Carey, Betty,” said Athelny.

“Fancy bringing him in here.  What will he think?”

She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up above her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair.  Mrs. Athelny was a large woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue eyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but advancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and blousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the colour had gone out of her hair.  She straightened herself, wiped her hand on her apron, and held it out.