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.

After a time it appeared that Sally had a suitor.  She went out occasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had met a young man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of business, who was a most eligible person.  One day she told her mother that he had asked her to marry him.

“What did you say?” said her mother.

“Oh, I told him I wasn’t over-anxious to marry anyone just yet awhile.”  She paused a little as was her habit between observations.  “He took on so that I said he might come to tea on Sunday.”