Julia nodded; this was bad, but it might have been worse.  Mr. Rawson-Clew was not a personal friend of the Polkingtons, and he was not a man in an inferior position who might presume upon his loan to the Captain to establish a friendly footing.  On the contrary, he was in a superior position, so much so that for a moment Julia was at a loss to understand how he came to accommodate her father.  Then she recalled his face—­he had been pointed out to her—­he looked a good-natured fool; probably he had met the Captain somewhere and been sorry for him, or perhaps he did not like to say “no.”  In any case he had lent the money and, so Julia fancied, would have to wait a very long time before he saw it again.  She dismissed the young man from her mind and fell to working out plans to meet the more pressing difficulties.

The relations would have to help; not with money; they would not do that to a useful extent, but with invitations.  Cherie was easily provided for; Aunt Louise had before offered to take her abroad for the winter; Cherie did not in the least want to go; it was likely to be nothing nicer than acting as unpaid companion to a fidgety old lady; but under the present circumstances she would have to go.  For Violet it was not quite so easy; it would look rather odd for her to go visiting among obliging relatives, seeing that she was only just engaged—­how things looked was a point the Polkingtons always considered.  But it would have to be managed; Julia fancied something might be arranged at Bath, a place which was a cheap fare from Marbridge.  Mrs. Polkington would probably go somewhere for part of the time, then there could be some real retrenchments not otherwise possible.  Mary might be dismissed; Mr. Gillat even might come to board with them for a little; the outside world need not know he was a guest that paid.

Julia was not satisfied with these plans; they would barely meet the difficulty she knew, even with credit stretched to the uttermost and the household crippled for some time; but she could think of nothing better, and determined to suggest them to Mrs. Polkington.  With these thoughts in her mind, she went up-stairs; as she passed the drawing-room, she noticed that the blinds had not been pulled down; she went to the window to remedy the omission, and so saw in the street below the young man who, with the debt owing to him, she had lately dismissed from her mind.  There was a street lamp directly below the window, and she stood a moment by the curtain looking down.  Mr. Rawson-Clew was riding past, but slowly; it was quite possible to see his face, which did not contradict her former opinion—­good-natured but foolish, and possibly weak.  He turned in his saddle just below the window to speak to his companion, and she noticed that it was a stranger with him, a man wearing a single eyeglass, ten years older than the other, and of a totally different stamp.  Indeed, of a stamp differing from any she had seen at Marbridge, so much so that she wondered how he came to be here, and what he was doing.  But this was rather a waste of time, for the next day she knew.