They left the carriage and turned to go back to the schools, where the tea had already begun. Katherine slipped her arm into Philip’s: he knew that she was waiting for him to speak about the place, and he knew, too, that she was not expecting his praise as confidently as she would have expected it three weeks ago. A little of her great trust in him was shadowed by her surprise that he had not surrendered to Glebeshire more completely. Now he could tell her that it was to the Trenchards and not to Glebeshire that he had refused to surrender. She could not tell, of course, that all his attention now was fixed on his determination to tell her everything as soon as he was alone. Walking with him up the road was that secret figure who attends us all—the fine, cherished personality whom we know ourselves to be. To Philip, more than many others, was the preservation of that secret personality essential. He was, this afternoon, determined to live up to the full height of it. In the schools, at two long tables, the whole village was feeding: the room was steaming with heat: huge urns at the ends of the tables were pouring out tea with a fierce, scornful indifference, as though they would show what they could do but despised their company. The fishermen, farmers, their wives and families, shining with soap, perspiration and excitement, sat, packed so tightly together that eating seemed an impossibility: there were plates of bread and butter, saffron buns, seed-cake piled up and running over: there were the ladies of the village, who said: “Now, Mr. Trefusis, do try another,” or “Mary’s rather tired, I think, Mrs. Maxwell. Shall I lift her down?” or “Well, Mrs. Pascoe, out and about again, I see,” or “How’s the new cottage, Henry? Better than the old one, I expect.” From the other side of the world came: “Aw, thank ’ee, Ma’am—not so bad, thank ’ee. Up to Glossen’s Farm they ’ad it praper wild, so they tell me”—“Yes ... true enough. All over spots ’er arms was, poor worm”—“Didn’t worry we, thank ’ee, Miss. Marnin’ or evenin’ all the same to we ... Ah, yes, poor Mr. Izards—’e did suffer terrible, poor dear....” Philip perceived with a sense of irritated isolation how instantly and how easily the other members of his party were swallowed up by the Ceremony. He himself was introduced to a prim young woman in a blue hat, who flung remarks to him over a tea-tray and seemed to regard his well-cut clothes with contempt. The fishermen did not look happy in their stiff Sunday clothes, but he liked their faces. They reminded him more of Russian peasants than any people whom he had seen since his landing in England. No, he must not think about that ... Russia was banished for ever.