“I am as glad as anything that you have done it; I never for
a moment thought of it myself, though I ought, for it is
just like you; thank you ever so much.

“Please don’t bother about me, I am all right and have
arranged capitally.”

Here she turned over his letter to see how he had signed
himself and, seeing, signed in imitation—­

“Yours very sincerely,

“JULIA POLKINGTON.”

“I wonder what his name is?” she speculated; “H.  F.—­H.—­Henry, Horace—­I shouldn’t think he had a name people called him by.”

She read her own letter through, and as she was folding it stopped; it occurred to her that he might think courtesy demanded a formal refusal of his proposal.  It was, of course, quite unnecessary; the refusal went without saying; she would no more have dreamed of accepting his quixotic offer than he would have dreamed of avoiding the necessity of making it; the one was as much a sine qua non to her as the other was to him.  From which it would appear that in some ways at least their notions of honour were not so many miles apart.

She flattened her letter again; perhaps he would think the definite word more polite, so she added a postscript—­

     “Of course this means no.  I am sorry we can’t go on with the
     excursion, but we can’t, you know.  The holiday is over; this
     is ‘to-morrow,’ so good-bye.”

After that she fastened the envelope, and a while later went out to post it.  As she went up the drive she caught sight of Joost some distance away in the gardens; his face was not towards her, and she congratulated herself that he had not seen her.  However, the congratulations were premature; when she came back from the post she found him standing just inside the gate waiting for her, obviously waiting.  At least it was obvious to her; she had caught people herself before now, and so recognised that she was caught too plainly to uselessly attempt getting away.

“Do you want to hear what happened yesterday?” she asked, with an effrontery she did not feel.  “I expect Denah has told you all, perhaps a little more than all, still, enough of it was true.”

“I want to speak to you,” he said, and parted the high bushes that bordered the left of the drive.

Julia reluctantly enough, but feeling that she owed him what explanation was possible, went through.  Behind the bushes there was a small enclosed space used for growing choice bulbs; it was empty now, the sandy soil quite bare and dry; but it was very retired, being surrounded by an eight foot hedge with only one opening besides the way by which they had come in through the looser-growing bushes.  Julia made her way down to the opening; with her practical eye for such things, she recognised that it would be the best way of escape, just as the loose-growing bushes offered the likeliest point of attack.  This, of course, did not matter to her, she being in the case of “he who is down,” but it might matter a good deal to Joost if his father looked through the bushes, and he would never know how to take care of himself.