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Updated: June 11, 2025
Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. Her mouth tightened a little. "It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and it's safe; I expect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction." It was evident that Athelny would.
He was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give himself time to recover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical state and almost anything was enough to make him cry. They dragged Philip into the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's edification. Athelny got up and shook hands with him.
Mildred dreamt a great deal, and she had an accurate memory for her dreams, which she would relate every day with prolixity. 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.
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.
At tea they fought for the privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him Uncle Philip. Athelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned the various stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and it occurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he attempted.
"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.
The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter up the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from Sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he asked them what they had learned.
"It's very rough," said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity which suggested that he was eager for him to read it. It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which was hard to read: it was just like black letter. "Doesn't it take you an awful time to write like that? It's wonderful." "I don't know why handwriting shouldn't be beautiful."
"It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?" Athelny told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal had promised to keep their places open for them.
One morning the house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the bedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the 'letter. He noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist: his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and his age was forty-eight.
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