One morning he received a long letter from Thorpe Athelny.  He was taking his holiday in the theatrical way, in which there was much sound sense, which characterised him.  He had done the same thing for ten years.  He took his whole family to a hop-field in Kent, not far from Mrs. Athelny’s home, and they spent three weeks hopping.  It kept them in the open air, earned them money, much to Mrs. Athelny’s satisfaction, and renewed their contact with mother earth.  It was upon this that Athelny laid stress.  The sojourn in the fields gave them a new strength; it was like a magic ceremony, by which they renewed their youth 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