“I am wearing out my old clothes first,” she answered.

Just then Johnny’s voice was heard.  “Hadn’t I better water the plants?” it asked.  Next moment Mr. Gillat came in sight carrying a big water can.  “Julia hadn’t I better—­” he began, then he saw the visitor.

“Ah, Mr. Gillat,” Rawson-Clew said.  “How are you?  I am glad to see you again; last time I called at Berwick Street you were not there.”

Johnny set down the water can.  “Glad to see you,” he said beaming; “very glad, very glad, indeed”—­he would have been pleased to see Rawson-Clew anywhere if for no other reason than that he had shown an interest in Julia’s welfare.

Meanwhile Captain Polkington sat in the kitchen listening for the sound of the departing motor.  But it did not come; everything was still except for the ceaseless singing of larks, to which he was so used now that it had come almost to seem like silence.  He began to grow uneasy; what if, after all, Rawson-Clew were not here by accident and mistake.  What if he had come on some wretched and uncomfortable business?  The Captain could not think of anything definite, but that, he felt, did not make it impossible.  The man certainly had not gone, he must be staying talking to Julia.  Well, Julia could talk to him, she was more fit to see the business through than her father was.  There was some comfort in this thought, but it did not last long, for just then the silence was broken, there was a sound of steps, not going down the path to the gate, but coming towards the kitchen door!  The Captain rose hastily—­it was too bad of Julia, too bad!  He was not fit for these shocks and efforts; he was not what he used to be; the terrible cold of the winter in this place had told on his rheumatism, on his heart.  He crossed the room quickly.  The door which shut in the staircase banged as that of the big kitchen was pushed open.

“You had better take your boots off here, Johnny,” Julia said; “you have got lots of mud on them.”

She took off her own as she spoke, slipping out of them without having much trouble with the laces.  Rawson-Clew watched her, finding a somewhat absurd satisfaction in seeing her small arched feet free of the clumsy boots.

“Are not your stockings wet?” he said.

“No,” she answered; “not a bit.”

“Are you quite sure?  I think they must be.”

“No, they are not; are they, Johnny?” She stood on one foot and put the other into Mr. Gillat’s hand.

Johnny felt it carefully, giving it the same consideration that a wise housekeeper gives to the airing of sheets, then he gave judgment in favour of Julia.

“I was right, you see,” she said; “they are quite dry.”

She looked up as she spoke, and met Rawson-Clew’s eyes; there was something strange there, something new which brought the colour to her face.  She went quickly into the other kitchen and began to get the tea.