The carrier was rather short-tempered about it, and the other
passenger said something to the effect that "They didn't oughter let
him out alone!" The Captain payed no attention but climbed into the
back of the cart and sat down near his whisky. The other passenger got
up beside the driver, and in a few minutes they were lumbering down
the crooked streets. Soon they were out of the town and jogging
quietly along the quiet lanes; the driver leaned forward to get a
light from his passenger's pipe; his face for a moment showed ruddy in
the glow of the one lamp, then it sunk into gloom again. Captain
Polkington did not notice; he did not notice the voices in
intermittent talk, or the fume of their tobacco that hung on the moist
air and mingled with the scent of the drooping violets in his coat.
He knew nothing and was aware of nothing except that he was the most
miserable, the most unfortunate of men. Throughout the whole
interminable journey he dwelt on that one thing as he sat by his
whisky in the dark, clutching tightly the soft paper parcel and
finding his only fragment of comfort in it. He had after all bought
something; poor, disappointed, fleeced as he was, he had spent his
last money in buying a present for his daughter.

CHAPTER XXI

THE GOING OF THE GOOD COMRADE

The cottage was very quiet. Although it was not late, both Captain
Polkington and Johnny had gone to bed, the one to suit himself, the
other to oblige Julia; she was in the kitchen now, as completely alone
as she could wish. And certainly she did wish it; by the hard light in
her eyes and the grim look about her mouth it was clear she was in no
mood for company. She had got at the truth that evening, or most of
it; the whole affair, with the exception of one point only, was quite
plain to her; not by her father's wish or intention, but plain none
the less. Subterfuge was an art the Polkingtons understood so well
that it was exceedingly difficult to deceive them; Julia was the most
difficult of them all to deceive, and the Captain was least clever at
subterfuge; it was not wonderful, therefore, that she knew nearly all
there was to know. Her heart was bitter within her, but against
herself as well as against her father--after all he had but done what
she had once thought to do. She had stayed her hand because the one
who owned the daffodil was a child to her. Her father had had no such
reason for staying his; the one who owned this daffodil was