He supposed he would find Johnny in the garden, but he did not; he and the Captain were some way out on the heath now, and, fortunately for the latter’s peace, neither saw any one approach the cottage.  Rawson-Clew looked round the garden and finding no one decided, rather reluctantly, that he must go to the house.  He did not want to meet Julia again; he thought it rather unlikely that she should still be in the kitchen, but there was a chance of it, so he approached with a view to reconnoitering before presenting himself.  The outer kitchen, which partook rather of the nature of a wash-house, had a large unglazed window; when he drew near to this he heard a noise from within.  It sounded like some one sobbing, not quiet sobs, but slow deep spasmodic ones like the last remains of a tempest of tears which has not spent itself but only been imperfectly suppressed by sheer will.  Rawson-Clew paused though possibly he had no business to do so.

“Oh, why,” one wailed from within, “why is not father dead?  If he were dead—­if only he had been dead!”

The unglazed window was large and rather high up, but Rawson-Clew was a man of fair height; he was also usually considered an honourable one, but when he heard the voice, saying something which was plainly only meant for the hearing of Omnipotence, he did not go away.  He put his hands on the flintwork of the window-sill and in a moment found himself in the twilight of the unceiled kitchen.

Julia was crouching in a corner, her elbows on the old chopping-block, her face hidden on her tightly-clenched hands, while she struggled angrily with the shaking sobs.  For a moment she struggled, then mastered herself somehow and looked up, perhaps because she meant to rise and set about her work.  She had been crying hard and tears do not improve the average face, certainly they did not hers; and she had been trying hard to stop, cramming a screwed-up handkerchief into her eyes and that did not improve matters either.  One would have said her face could have expressed nothing but the extremity of unbecoming woe, yet when she caught sight of Rawson-Clew standing just under the window it changed extraordinarily and to anger.

“Go away!” she said; “go away!  Do you hear?”

Rawson-Clew did not go away; he came nearer and Julia drew further into the corner, ensconsing herself behind the chopping-block, and looking about as inviting of approach as a trapped rat.

“Julia,” he said.

“Go away!” was her only answer.

“Why did you send me away?”

“Because I wanted you gone.”

“Because Captain Polkington is not dead?  Is that it?”

“You are a dishonourable eavesdropper!  No, it wasn’t that.”

He sat down on the chopping-block barricading her corner so that she could not get out without stepping over him.  “Do you know it strikes me that you are not strictly honest either, at least not strictly truthful just now.”