He nodded, and she turned to the other man, who had risen on her entrance, and now stood with his back to the evil-smelling stove which Mary had lighted as usual in honour of Captain Polkington’s visitors.  She measured him swiftly, and no detail escaped her; the well-bred impassive face, where the annoyance caused by her entrance showed only in the rather hard eyes; the straight figure, even the perfection of his tailoring and the style of his boots—­she summed it all up with the rapidity of one who has had to depend on her wits before.  And her wits were to be depended on, for, in spite of the warmth of her protective anger, she felt his superiority of person, position and ability, and, only too probably, of cause also.  She could have laughed at the contrast he presented to her father and herself and the surroundings.  It was perhaps for this reason that she asked him maliciously, “Have you come to collect the debt?”

The question went home.  “Certainly not,” he answered haughtily; “the money—­”

But the Captain prevented whatever he was going to say.  “He thinks I am an adventurer, a sharper,” he bleated, now thoroughly throwing himself on his daughter’s protection; “his intention seems to be a warning not to try to get anything more out of his cousin—­something of that sort.”

Julia paid little attention to her father.  “You were going to say,” she inquired serenely of Rawson-Clew, “something about the money, I think?”

“No,” he answered, with cold politeness.  “I only meant to suggest that this is perhaps rather an unpleasant subject for a lady.”

He moved as if he would open the door for her, but she stood her ground.  “It is unpleasant,” she said; “for that reason had we not better get it over quickly?  You have not come to collect the debt, you have come, then, for what?”

“To make one or two things plain to Captain Polkington.  I believe I have succeeded; if so, he will no doubt tell you anything you wish to know.  Good afternoon,” and he moved to the door on his own account, whereupon Julia’s calmness gave way.

“You do think my father an adventurer, then?” she said.  “You think him a sharper and your cousin a gull, and you came to warn him that if he tried to get anything more in future it was you with whom he would have to deal.  And the money—­you were going to say the money was not what you came for because you never expected to see it again?  But you are wrong there; you shall see it; it will be repaid, every penny of it.”

Rawson-Clew paused till she had finished; then, “I am sorry for any misunderstanding there may have been,” he said.  “I trust you will trouble yourself no farther in the matter,” and he opened the door.

It was not a denial; it was not, so Julia considered, even an apology; to her it seemed more like a polite request to mind her own business, and she went up to her room after he had gone almost unjustly angry, too angry for the time being to think about the rashness of her promise that the debt should be paid.