And Mijnheer beamed with satisfaction in his son and his blue daffodil.  But Julia leaned against the stand in the dry twilight, saying nothing.  Money, it appeared, was not then the measure of all things; neither intrinsically, as with Mr. Alexander Cross, nor for what it represented in comfort and position, as with her own family, did it rank with these bulb growers.  They, these people whom her mother would have called market gardeners, tradespeople, it seemed, loved and reverenced their work; they thought about it and for it, were proud of it and valued distinction in it, and nothing else.  The blue daffodil was no valuable commercial asset, it was an honour and glory, an unparalleled floral distinction—­no wonder Cross could not buy or exploit it.  In a jump Julia comprehended the situation more fully than that astute business man ever could; but at the same time she felt a little bitter amusement—­it was this, this treasured wonder, that she thought to obtain.

The next day, Sunday, Julia went to church with Mijnheer and Joost; Mevrouw did not find herself well enough for church, but she insisted that Julia should not stay at home on her account.  Accordingly the girl accompanied father and son to the Groote Kerk and listened to the rather dull service there.  For the most part she sat with her eyes demurely cast down, though once or twice she looked round the old barn-like place, and wondered if there were any frescoes under the whitewash of the walls and whence came the faint, all pervading smell, like a phantom of incense long forgotten.  When service was over and they came out into the sunny street, Mijnheer announced that he was going to see a friend.  Julia, of course, must hurry home to set the table for the mid-day coffee drinking, and afterwards prepare for dinner.  Joost was going back, likewise, and to her it was so natural a thing they should go together that she never thought about it.  It did not, however, seem so to him, and after walking a few paces in embarrassment, he said—­

“You would perhaps prefer I did not walk with you?”

“Oh, no,” she answered, in some surprise; “I shall be pleased, if you are going the same way, that is.”

He fidgeted, becoming more embarrassed.  “You are sure you do not mind?” he said.  “It is a little conspicuous for you.”

Then she understood, and looked up with twinkling eyes.  “I am afraid I am conspicuous, anyhow,” she said.

This was true enough, for her clothes, fitting like an Englishwoman’s, and put on like a Frenchwoman’s (the Polkingtons all knew how to dress), were unlike any others in sight.  Her face, too, dark and thin and keenly alert, was unlike, and her light, easy walk; and if this was not enough it must be added that she was now walking in the road because the pavement was so crowded.

Joost stepped off the path to make room for her and she saw by his face that his mind was not at ease.

“Pray, Mijnheer,” she said, in her softest tones, and her voice had many tones as her companion had not failed to notice, though he was not aware that the softest was also usually the most mischievous, “will you not walk the other side of the way?  Then you will not be conspicuous at all.”