They arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to the huts.  Philip went in to hold the gate open for her.

“Well, here I think I’ll say good-night.”

“Thank you for coming all that way with me.”

She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said: 

“If you were very nice you’d kiss me good-night like the rest of the family.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

Philip had spoken in jest.  He merely wanted to kiss her, because he was happy and he liked her and the night was so lovely.

“Good-night then,” he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him.

She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered a little, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaning it, he flung his arms round her.  She yielded quite silently.  Her body was firm and strong.  He felt her heart beat against his.  Then he lost his head.  His senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters.  He drew her into the darker shadow of the hedge.

CXX

Philip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold tickling his face with a feather.  There was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes.  He was drunken with sleep.

“Come on, lazybones,” said Jane.  “Sally says she won’t wait for you unless you hurry up.”

Then he remembered what had happened.  His heart sank, and, half out of bed already, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he was overwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly, he regretted what he had done.  What would she say to him that morning?  He dreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a fool.  But the children gave him no time; Edward took his bathing-drawers and his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutes they all clattered down into the road.  Sally gave him a smile.  It was as sweet and innocent as it had ever been.

“You do take a time to dress yourself,” she said.  “I thought you was never coming.”

There was not a particle of difference in her manner.  He had expected some change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way she treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but there was nothing.  She was exactly the same as before.  They walked towards the sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she was always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and gentle.  She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it.  Philip was astounded.  He had expected the incident of the night before to have caused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had happened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little girl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he chatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought