“Why did you not tell me before?” he said without any greeting at all, and he spoke as if he had right and authority.  “Why did you let this thing weigh on you for two years and never say a word of it to me?”

“I was ashamed,” she answered with truth.  Then the spirit which still inhabits some women, making them willing to be won by capture, prompted her to struggle against the capitulation she was ready to make.  “There was nothing to speak of to you or any one else,” she said, with an effort at her old assurance, and she led the way in as she spoke.  “I never meant to speak of it at all, I meant just to pay the debt as from father, and not myself appear in it.  I did not do it that way, I know; I could not; I did not get the money till yesterday and—­and”—­the assurance faded away pathetically—­“that was too late.”

Rawson-Clew looked down, and for the first time noticed her mourning dress, and realising what it meant, remembered that convention demanded that a man, whose claim depends on another’s death, should not push it as soon as the funeral is over.  However he did not go away, the pathos of Julia’s voice kept him.

“Late or early would have made little difference,” he said; “it is just the same now as if it had been early.  Do you think I should not have known who sent the money at whatever time and in whatever circumstances it was paid?  Do you think I know two people who would pay a debt, which can hardly be said to exist, in such a way?”

But Julia was not comforted.  “It is too late,” she re-repeated; “too late for any satisfaction.  I thought I would prove that we were honest and honourable by paying it; I wanted to show father—­that I—­that our standard was the same as yours, and I have not.”

“No,” he answered, “you have not and you never will; your standard is not the same as mine; mine is the honour of an accepted convention, and yours is the honour of a personal truth, a personal experience, the honour of the soul.”

But she shook her head.  “It is not really,” she said; “and father—­”

“As to your father,” he interrupted gently, “do you not think that sometimes the potter’s thumb slips in the making of a vessel?”

She looked up with a feeling of gratitude.  “Yes,” she said; “yes, that is it, if only we could realise it—­poor father.  It was partly our fault, too, mother’s, all of ours—­and he is dead now.”

“I know.  Let him rest in peace; we are concerned no more with his doings or misdoings; our concern, yours and mine is with the living.”

She did not answer; a piece of wood had fallen from the fire and lay blazing and spluttering on the hearth; she stooped to pick it up and he watched her.

“I know I have no business here now,” he said.  “Had I known of his death before, I would not have come to-day; I would have waited, but since I have come—­Julia—­”

She was standing straight now, the wood safely back in the fire; he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him.  “Julia, you and I have always dealt openly, without regarding appearances, let us deal so now—­since I have come.  Won’t you let me give you a receipt?”