This, however, was taken in good part by his family; there was much waving of hands and many shouted good wishes as he walked rapidly out of hearing.

“Poor Francis, I hope he’s going to enjoy his walk,” Barbara said, as they started homeward.  “He gets so bored out here in California!”

“I wonder why?” Julia said, hiding a Californian’s resentment.

“Oh, well, it is different, Ju—­you can’t deny it!  One wants to be loyal, and all that,” Barbara said, “but in England there’s a purpose—­there’s a recognized order to life!  They’re not eternally experimenting; they don’t want to be idle and ignorant like our women—­they’ve got better things to do.  There’s a finish and a pleasantness about life in London; men have more leisure to take an interest in women’s work; why, you’ve no idea how many interesting, clever, charming men I know in London!  How many does one know here?  And as for the women—–­”

It was then Julia said: 

“Ah, well, you’re different from other women.  You’re so busy—­and necessary—­and unself-conscious, Barbara.  You make other women seem such fools!”

“Not necessarily,” said Barbara, smiling.  “And don’t think I’m horribly conceited, Julia, talking this way.  It’s only to you!” They walked a little way without speaking, and then Barbara sat down on a low bank, some quarter of a mile above Richie’s cabin, and added:  “Do sit down, Ju.  You and I are never alone, and I want to talk to you.  Julie, don’t be angry—­it’s about Jim.”

Julia’s eyes immediately widened, her lips met firmly, she grew a little pale.

“Go ahead,” she said steadily.  “Have you seen him?”

Barbara answered the question with another.

“You knew he was in London?”

“No,” said Julia, “I didn’t know it.”

She had remained standing, and now Barbara urged her again to sit down.  But Julia would not, pleading that she would rather walk, and in the end Barbara got up, and they began slowly to walk down the road together.

“Tell me,” Julia commanded then.

“Now, dearest girl,” Barbara pleaded, “Please don’t get excited over nothing.  Jim’s been in London nearly a year; in fact, he’s settled there.  He’s associated with one of the biggest consulting surgeons we have, old Sir Peveril McCann.  They met in Berlin.  I didn’t know it until this spring—­March it was.  We’d just come up from the country to meet Francis, home on a year’s leave; it was just before Malcolm arrived.  Somebody spoke of this Doctor Studdiford, and I said at once that it must be my foster brother.  I explained as well as I could that since Francis and I had been travelling so much, Jim and I had fallen out of touch, and so on.”

“Who told you about him?” Julia asked.

“A Mrs. Chancellor.  She’s quite a character,” Barbara said.  “Some people like her; some don’t.  I don’t—­much.  She’s rich, and a widow; she studies art, and she loves to get hold of interesting people.”