She gave him the money, copper by copper.  The bar-parlour was already well filled.  It had a sanded floor, benches round it, and yellow pictures of Victorian prize-fighters on the walls.  The licencee knew all his customers by name, and he leaned over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who were throwing rings on a stick that stood up from the floor:  their failure was greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the company.  Room was made for the new arrivals.  Philip found himself sitting between an old labourer in corduroys, with string tied under his knees, and a shiny-faced lad of seventeen with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red forehead.  Athelny insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings.  He backed himself for half a pint and won it.  As he drank the loser’s health he said: 

“I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my boy.”

He was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and pointed beard, among those country folk, and it was easy to see that they thought him very queer; but his spirits were so high, his enthusiasm so contagious, that it was impossible not to like him.  Conversation went easily.  A certain number of pleasantries were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of the Isle of Thanet, and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of the local wag.  A pleasant gathering!  It would have been a hard-hearted person who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows.  Philip’s eyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still; there were little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like those of a cottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums.  In due course one by one the idlers got up and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was cooking.

“I expect you’ll be ready for your bed,” said Mrs. Athelny to Philip.  “You’re not used to getting up at five and staying in the open air all day.”

“You’re coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren’t you?” the boys cried.

“Rather.”

He was tired and happy.  After supper, balancing himself against the wall of the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his pipe and looked at the night.  Sally was busy.  She passed in and out of the hut, and he lazily watched her methodical actions.  Her walk attracted his notice; it was not particularly graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs from the hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision.  Athelny had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently Philip heard his wife address the world in general.

“There now, I’m out of tea and I wanted Athelny to go down to Mrs. Black’s and get some.”  A pause, and then her voice was raised:  “Sally, just run down to Mrs. Black’s and get me half a pound of tea, will you?  I’ve run quite out of it.”

“All right, mother.”

Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and she combined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider.  Sally came out of the hut, turning down her sleeves.