as if he were
not clean, as if he had no right to entertain even the ghost of the
good comrade.

Rawson-Clew was not self-conscious; it never occurred to him to think
if he appeared ridiculous, whether he was alone or in company. He took
off his dress coat and flung it aside with a feeling of disgust; its
sleeve had brushed that woman's bare arm; he could almost fancy that a
suggestion of the scent she used clung to it. He put it out of sight
and fetched some other garment before he came back to the thing which
had recalled Julia. And yet the girl was no lily-child with the dew of
dawn upon her; he did not for one instant think she was; probably, had
she been, she would not have been the good comrade. The facts of life
were not strange to her, she knew them, good and bad; was not above
laughing at what was funny even if it was somewhat coarse, but she had
no taste for lascivious wallowing no matter under what name disguised.
A man could be at home with her, he could speak the truth to her; but
he would not make a point of taking her into the society of that
woman, any more than he would invite a friend to look at the sink,
unless there was some purpose to serve.

Rawson-Clew took up the bottle and looked at it, and looked at the
address card on the lid, all over again; and there grew in his mind
the conviction that he been a remarkable and particular fool. Not
because he had taken that holiday on the Dunes, nor yet because he had
failed to get the explosive and Julia had succeeded--he believed that
a man might have average intelligence and yet fail there, for he
thought she had more than average. But because he had failed to
recognise a fact that had been existent all the time--the need he had
for the good comrade. Why had he a better liking for his work than of
old? Because it was such as she would have liked, could have done
well, every now and then he fancied her there. Why did he find new
pleasure in the hours he spent reading Renaissance Italian, old
memoirs, the ripe wisdom of the late Tudors and early Stuarts? Because
he found her in the pages, saw her laugh sometimes, heard her
contradict at others; felt her, invisible and not always recognised,
at his elbow.

He looked round; why should not the presence be fact instead of fancy?
He would go to Mr. Gillat and find her whereabouts; if Julia was in
England, as she probably was, seeing that the box was posted in
London, the old man would know where she was. He