Johnny set down his half-finished cup of tea with alacrity, and with alacrity followed the Captain.  But Julia followed too; Johnny turned uneasily as he heard her step behind him on the dark stairs; doubtless, so he told himself, she was going to the kitchen.  She was not, however; on the contrary, she showed every sign of accompanying them to the little room behind.

“Do you want anything, Julia?” her father asked, turning about in the doorway; “I’m busy to-night—­I wish you would go away.”

The sentence began with dignity, but ended with querulousness.  But Julia was not affected; she came into the room.  “I want to talk to you,” she said, closing the door.  “You had much better tell me about it, you will be found out, you know; mother would have guessed there was something wrong to-day if she had not been so busy with Mr. Frazer.”

“Found out in what?” the Captain demanded; “I should like to know of what you accuse me—­you, my own daughter—­this is much, indeed.”

He paced the hearthrug with outraged dignity, but Julia only drew one of the horse-hair chairs to the table.  “You would do better to tell me,” she said; “I might be able to help you—­Johnny, won’t you sit down?”

Johnny took the cane deck-chair, sitting down nervously and so near the edge that the old chair creaked ominously.  Captain Polkington paced the rug once or twice more, then he sat down opposite, giving up all pretence of dignity.

“It is money, of course,” Julia went on; “I suppose you lost at the races yesterday—­how much?”

The Captain did not answer, he seemed overwhelmed by his troubles.  “How much?” Julia repeated, turning to Mr. Gillat.

“It was rather much,” that gentleman answered apologetically.

Julia looked puzzled.  “How could he have much to lose?” she asked.  “You couldn’t, you know,” bending her brows as she looked at her father—­“unless you borrowed—­did you borrow?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, rather eagerly; “I borrowed—­that was it; of course I was going to pay back—­I am going to pay back.”

“From whom did you borrow?” Another pause, and the question again, then the Captain explained confusedly:  “The cheque—­it came a day early—­I merely meant to make use of it for the day—­”

“The cheque!” Julia repeated, with dawning comprehension.  “The cheque from Slade & Slade that mother was speaking of this morning.  Our cheque, the money we have to live on for the next three months?”

“My cheque,” her father said, with one last effort at dignity; “made out to me—­my income that I have a perfect right to spend as I like; I used my own money for my own purposes.”

He forgot that a moment back he had excused the act as a borrowing; Julia did not remind him, she was too much concerned with the facts to trouble about mere turns of speech.  They, like words and motives, had not heretofore entered much into her considerations; consequences were what was really important to her—­how the bad might be averted, how the good drawn that way, and all used to the best advantage.  This point of view, though it leaves a great deal to be desired, has one advantage—­those who take it waste no time in lamentation or reproof.  For that reason they are perhaps some of the least unpleasant people to confess to.