The owner of the carnations glanced out of window, and commented on the scenery, which was here rather fine—­Julia would not have done that; all the same, she would have known just what sort of country they had passed through all the way, not only when it was fine; she would have noticed the lie of the land, the style of work done there, the kind of lives lived there, even, possibly, the likely difficulties in the way of railway-making and bridge building.  She would certainly have taken account of the faces on the platforms at which they drew up, so that without effort she could have picked out the porter who would give the best service; the stranger in need of help, and he who would offer it; and the guard most likely to be useful if it were necessary to cheat the company—­it was conceivable that cheating companies might sometimes be necessary in her scheme of things.

[Illustration:  “Julia”]

He cut another piece off the carnation stalks, they were still too long.  He did not wish Julia there; he fancied that it was likely she would not easily find her place among the people he would meet at his journey’s end.  But if there were no end—­if he were going somewhere else, east or west, north or south—­say a certain old oriental town, old and wicked as time itself, and full of the mystery and indefinable charm of age, and iniquity, and transcendent beauty—­she would like that; she would grasp the whole, without attempting to express or judge it.  Or a little far-off Tyrolean village, remote as the mountains from the life of the world—­she would like that; the discomfort would be nothing to her, the primitiveness, the simplicity, everything.  If he were going to some such place—­why, then, there were worse things than having to take the companion of the holiday too.

He handed back the carnations, and then unthinkingly put his hand into his coat-pocket.  His fingers came in contact with some dry rubbish, little more than stalks and dust, but still exhaling something of the fragrance which had been sun distilled on the Dunes.  He recognised it now—­Julia’s flowers, put there in the wood, and forgotten until now.

“Thanks so much for cutting them,” said the girl with the carnations, smelling them before she fastened them on again.  “I really think they are my favourite flower; the scent is so delicious—­quite the nicest flower of all, don’t you think so?”

“I’m not sure,” Rawson-Clew said thoughtfully, and when he spoke thoughtfully he drawled very much, “I’m not sure I don’t sometimes prefer wild thyme.”

CHAPTER XII

THE YOUNG COOK