He did give himself that pleasure; he was at the station half an hour and ten minutes before the train, so as to be sure of being in time.  He was on the platform when the train came in; Julia saw him, a rather ridiculous figure, his shabby coat tremendously brushed and tightly buttoned, a gay tie displayed to the uttermost to hide a ragged shirt front, his round, pink face, with its little grizzled moustache, wearing a look of melancholy which made it appear more than ordinarily foolish.  He was standing where the part of the train which came from Marbridge could not possibly stop, much in the way of porters and trucks; Julia had to find him and find her luggage too, but he seemed to think he was of much service.  Julia’s hard young heart smote her when he gave twopence to her porter.

“Johnny,” she said, as he took her ticket on the District Railway, “I am going to pay for my ticket.”

It was only threepence, but there are people who have to consider the threepences; if Julia was one, she knew that Mr. Gillat was another, and she had allowed for this threepence, and he probably had not.  He demurred, but she insisted.  “Then I won’t let you come with me;” and he gave way.

They were alone in a compartment, and he shouted above the rattle of the train something about her being missed at Marbridge.

“Oh, no,” she said, “mother and the girls think it is a good thing I am going.”

“Your father and I will miss you,” Johnny told her.

“You?”

“Yes; I’ll miss you very much—­we both shall; we shall sit down-stairs, each side of the fire-place, and think how you used to come there sometimes.  And when I wait in the dining-room when your father’s not at home, I’ll remember how you used to come down there and chat.  We had many a chat, didn’t we?—­you and me, and Bouquet burning between us—­there was nobody could trim Bouquet like you.  But perhaps you’ll be back before winter comes round again?”

“I don’t know when I shall be back,” was all Julia could find to say.  The idea of being missed like this was new and strange to her; the Polkingtons’ feelings were so much guided by what was advisable, or expedient, that there was not usually much room for simple emotions.  She felt somehow grateful to Johnny for caring a little that she was going, though at the same time she was unpleasantly convinced that she did not deserve it.

“It won’t be at all the same at No. 27,” Mr. Gillat was saying.  “Your mother—­she’s a wonderful woman, a wonderful woman, and Miss Violet’s a fine girl, so’s the other, handsome both of them; but they’re in the drawing-room, you know, and you—­you used to come down-stairs.”

It did not sound very explicit, but Julia understood what he meant.  Just then the train stopped at a station, and other passengers got in, so they had little more talk.