“Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl?  Only fifteen and she might be twenty.  Look at her cheeks.  She’s never had a day’s illness in her life.  It’ll be a lucky man who marries her, won’t it, Sally?”

Sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much embarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father’s outbursts, but with an easy modesty which was very attractive.

“Don’t let your dinner get cold, father,” she said, drawing herself away from his arm.  “You’ll call when you’re ready for your pudding, won’t you?”

They were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips.  He drank long and deep.

“My word, is there anything better than English beer?” he said.  “Let us thank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good appetite and beer.  I was married to a lady once.  My God!  Don’t marry a lady, my boy.”

Philip laughed.  He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in his odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the English fare:  the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity.

“You laugh, my boy, you can’t imagine marrying beneath you.  You want a wife who’s an intellectual equal.  Your head is crammed full of ideas of comradeship.  Stuff and nonsense, my boy!  A man doesn’t want to talk politics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty’s views upon the Differential Calculus?  A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and look after his children.  I’ve tried both and I know.  Let’s have the pudding in.”

He clapped his hands and presently Sally came.  When she took away the plates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him.

“Let her alone, my boy.  She doesn’t want you to fuss about, do you, Sally?  And she won’t think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you.  She don’t care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?”

“No, father,” answered Sally demurely.

“Do you know what I’m talking about, Sally?”

“No, father.  But you know mother doesn’t like you to swear.”

Athelny laughed boisterously.  Sally brought them plates of rice pudding, rich, creamy, and luscious.  Athelny attacked his with gusto.

“One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter.  It is a ritual.  Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year.  On Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose and apple sauce.  Thus we preserve the traditions of our people.  When Sally marries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but she will never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on Sundays roast beef and rice pudding.”

“You’ll call when you’re ready for cheese,” said Sally impassively.