But he talked of literature and music, he had a passion for
old folk-music, collecting folk-songs and folk-dances, studying the
Morris-dance and the old customs. Of course in time he would make money
in these ways.
Meanwhile youth and health and passion and promise. Winifred's father was
always generous: but still, he was a man from the north with a hard head
and a hard skin too, having received a good many knocks. At home he kept
the hard head out of sight, and played at poetry and romance with his
literary wife and his sturdy, passionate girls. He was a man of courage,
not given to complaining, bearing his burdens by himself. No, he did not
let the world intrude far into his home. He had a delicate, sensitive
wife whose poetry won some fame in the narrow world of letters. He
himself, with his tough old barbarian fighting spirit, had an almost
child-like delight in verse, in sweet poetry, and in the delightful game
of a cultured home. His blood was strong even to coarseness. But that
only made the home more vigorous, more robust and Christmassy. There was
always a touch of Christmas about him, now he was well off. If there was
poetry after dinner, there were also chocolates and nuts, and good little
out-of-the-way things to be munching.
Well then, into this family came Egbert. He was made of quite a different
paste. The girls and the father were strong-limbed, thick-blooded people,
true English, as holly-trees and hawthorn are English.
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