“Have you?” she asked suspiciously.  “What is it?  Show me.”

Julia fetched the photograph and exhibited it with as little elation as possible.  Denah did not admire it greatly, she said she much preferred her own present.

At this Joost smiled a little; it was only what he expected, and Julia began tactfully to talk about the beauties of the vase; but Denah was not to be put off her main point.

“Do you not prefer mine; really and truly, would you not rather it had been yours?” she asked.

Julia could have slipped out of the answer quite easily; the Polkingtons were all good at saying things to be interpreted according to taste; but Joost, with signal idiocy, stepped in and prevented.

“No,” he said, “she preferred the photograph; she chose it of the two.”

At this intelligence Denah’s face was a study; Julia could not but be amused by it although she was sorry.  She did not want to make the girl jealous, it was absurd that she should be; but absurdity never prevents such things, and would not now, nor would it make her pleasanter if she were once fairly roused.  Julia smoothed matters over as well as she could, which was very well considering, though she failed to entirely allay Denah’s suspicions.

As soon after as she could she set out for the village, leaving the field to the Dutch girl, and carrying with her enough unpleasant thoughts on other things to prevent her from giving any more consideration to the silly spasm of jealousy.  She had thrust her two letters from England into her pocket, and as she went she kept turning and turning their news in her mind though without much result.  There seemed very little she could do except prevent the banishing of her father to London.  She would write to her mother about that, and, what might be rather more effective, to Mr. Gillat.  She could tell him it must not happen, and instruct him how to place obstacles in the way; he would do his best to fulfil her requests, she was sure, even to going down to Marbridge and establishing himself there about the time of her father’s intended departure.  But with regard to the rest of her mother’s plans, or Cherie’s, whichever it might be, there seemed nothing to be done.  To write would be useless; to go home, even if she swallowed her pride and did so, very little better; of course she had not anything very definite to go upon, only a hint here and there, yet she guessed pretty well what they were doing, what spending, and what they thought to get by it.  The old, long-headed Julia feared for the result; Mrs. Polkington, clever though she undoubtedly was, had never succeeded in big ventures; she had not the sort of mind for it; she had never made a wholly successful big stride; her real climbing had been done very slowly, so the old Julia feared for her.  And the new one, who had grown up during the past months, revolted against the whole thing, finding it sordid, despicable, dishonourable even, somehow all wrong.  And perhaps because the old cautious Julia could do nothing to avert the consequences, the newer nature was in the ascendant that evening, and consequences were in time forgotten, and disgust and weariness and shame—­which included self and all things connected with it—­took possession of the girl.