window; when he drew near to this he heard a noise from
within. It sounded like some one sobbing, not quiet sobs, but slow
deep spasmodic ones like the last remains of a tempest of tears which
has not spent itself but only been imperfectly suppressed by sheer
will. Rawson-Clew paused though possibly he had no business to do so.

"Oh, why," one wailed from within, "why is not father dead? If he were
dead--if only he had been dead!"

The unglazed window was large and rather high up, but Rawson-Clew was
a man of fair height; he was also usually considered an honourable
one, but when he heard the voice, saying something which was plainly
only meant for the hearing of Omnipotence, he did not go away. He put
his hands on the flintwork of the window-sill and in a moment found
himself in the twilight of the unceiled kitchen.

Julia was crouching in a corner, her elbows on the old chopping-block,
her face hidden on her tightly-clenched hands, while she struggled
angrily with the shaking sobs. For a moment she struggled, then
mastered herself somehow and looked up, perhaps because she meant to
rise and set about her work. She had been crying hard and tears do not
improve the average face, certainly they did not hers; and she had
been trying hard to stop, cramming a screwed-up handkerchief into her
eyes and that did not improve matters either. One would have said her
face could have expressed nothing but the extremity of unbecoming woe,
yet when she caught sight of Rawson-Clew standing just under the
window it changed extraordinarily and to anger.

"Go away!" she said; "go away! Do you hear?"

Rawson-Clew did not go away; he came nearer and Julia drew further
into the corner, ensconsing herself behind the chopping-block, and
looking about as inviting of approach as a trapped rat.

"Julia," he said.

"Go away!" was her only answer.

"Why did you send me away?"

"Because I wanted you gone."

"Because Captain Polkington is not dead? Is that it?"

"You are a dishonourable eavesdropper! No, it wasn't that."

He sat down on the chopping-block barricading her corner so that she
could not get out without stepping over him. "Do you know it strikes
me that you are not strictly honest either, at least not strictly
truthful just now."

Julia tugged at her skirt; the chopping-block was on the hem and he on it
so that she could not get free. "Will you please go," she said, with a
catch in her breath. That is the worst of these h