the debt, had been written.  She grew hot as she thought of that carefully worded letter, and hot when she thought of her father’s relief thereat.  And here, here was the man who must have dictated the letter, and probably paid the debt, behaving just as if such things never existed.  He was walking with her—­she could not give him ten yards start and follow him into the village—­and making polite conversations about the weather, and the road, and the quantity of soup that had been spilled.

She pulled herself together, and, feeling the situation to be beyond remedy, determined to bear herself bravely, and carry it off with what credit she could.  She glanced at the more than half-empty soup can.  “I am afraid you are right,” she said; “there is a great deal of it gone; still, that is not without advantage—­I shall be sent to take some more in a day or two.”

“You wish that?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she answered, “I find the exercise beneficial; I have had too much pudding lately.”

He looked politely surprised, and she went on to explain.

“It is very wholesome,” she said, “but a bit stodgy; I think it is too really good to be taken in such large quantities by any one like me.  It is unbelievably good, it makes one perfectly ashamed of oneself; and unbelievably narrow, it makes one long for bed-time.”

She broke off to smile at his more genuine surprise, and her smile, like that of some other people of little real beauty, was one of singular charm.

“Did you think I meant actual pudding?” she asked.  “I didn’t; I meant just the whole life here; if you knew the people well, the real middle class ones, you would understand.”

“I think I can understand without knowing them well,” he said; “I fancy there is a good deal of pudding about; in fact, I myself am feeling its rather oppressive influence.”

“The town is paved with it,” Julia declared.  “I thought so this afternoon.  I also thought, though it is Tuesday, it was just like a spring Sunday; every day is like that.”

Rawson-Clew suggested that many people appreciated spring Sundays.

“So do I,” Julia agreed, “but in moderation; you can’t do your washing on Sunday, nor your harvesting in spring.  An endless succession of spring Sundays is very awkward when you have got—­well, week-day work to do, don’t you think so?”

He wondered a little what week-day work she had in her mind, but he did not ask.

“Are you living with a Dutch family?” he inquired.

She nodded.  “As companion,” she said; “sort of superior general servant.”

“Indeed?  Then it must have been you I saw yesterday; I thought so at the time; you were driving with some Dutch ladies.”

Julia was surprised that he had seen and recognised her.  “We went for an excursion yesterday,” she said; “they called it a picnic.”