She propped her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands.  She wished she had not seen Rawson-Clew that day; she wished she was not here, she wished there was no such thing as a blue daffodil; she was vaguely angry and dissatisfied, but not willing to face things.  It was unlikely that the man had seen her, unlikely that she would see him again; but he was incongruous in this simple life, and he brought forcibly home the incongruity of herself and her errand.  She had come for the blue daffodil, it was no good pretending she had not; she told herself angrily, as she had told herself when she had first looked at Johnny’s yellow-faced watch, that she was going to get it in some way that was justifiable.  Only it was not so easy to believe that now she knew more about it and the Van Heigens.  But she must have it, that was the argument she fell back on, the necessity was so great that she was justified (the Polkingtons had always found necessity a justification for doing things that could be anyhow made to square with their position).

She wished she had not been for the excursion to-day, that she lived less really in their simple, sincere life.  She wished from her heart that the Van Heigens had been different sort of people—­almost any other sort, then she would not have had these tiresome feelings—­Johnny and Johnny’s watch, Joost Van Heigen—­there was something about them all that was hatefully embarrassing.  No self-respecting thief robbed a child; even the most apathetic conscience revolted at such an idea.  No gentleman worthy of the name attacked an unarmed man, the preparedness of the parties made all the difference between murder and fair fight.  Of course, in the abstract, stealing was stealing under all conditions, and killing killing, and both open to condemnation; but in the concrete, in fact, the equality of the two persons made all the difference, at least to honour.

Julia moved uneasily and looked, without seeing, across the dark garden.  The monotonous sound of voices floated out indistinctly; the old pair in the sitting-room were talking in the lamplight, Mevrouw going over once again the little incidents of the day.  Joost was in the drawing-room at the other end of the house; he had been playing some of his favourite composer; he had stopped now, and was doubtless sorting his music and putting it away, each piece four-square and absolutely neat.  Day by day, and year by year, they lived this quiet life, with a drive for a rare holiday treat, and the discovery of a new flower as the goal of all hope and ambition.  Things did not happen to them, bad things that needed doubtful remedies; they had never had to scratch for their living, and show one face outwards and another in.  They, none of them, ever wanted to do things; they had not the courage.  How much of virtue was lack of courage and a desire not to be remarkable?

Julia asked herself the question defiantly, and did not hear Joost come out of the house.  He was carrying a lantern, and was going to make his nightly round of the barns.  She did not hear his step, and so started when she saw the light swing across the ground at her feet.