Johnny came to help her, and the visitor offered his assistance, too.  Julia at once sent the latter to the pump for water, which she did not want.  When he came back she had recovered herself, had even abused herself roundly for imagining this new thing or misinterpreting it.  There was no question of man and woman between her and Rawson-Clew; there never had been and never could be (although he had asked her to marry him).  It was all just impersonal and friendly; it was absurd or worse to think for an instant that he had another feeling, had any feeling at all—­any more than she.  And again she abused herself, perhaps because it is not easy to be sure of feelings, either your own or other people’s, even if you want to, and it certainly is not easy to always want what you ought.  Moreover, there was a difference; it was impossible to overlook it, she felt in herself or him, or both.  She had altered since they parted at the Van Heigens’, perhaps grown to be a woman.  After all she was a woman, with a great deal of the natural woman in her, too, he had said—­and he was a man, a gentleman, first, perhaps, polished and finished, her senior, her superior—­yet a man, possibly with his share of the natural man, the thing on which one cannot reckon.  Just then the kettle boiled and she made the tea.

“Where is father?” she asked; and Mr. Gillat went to look for him.

“He is up-stairs,” he said when he came back; “he does not feel well, he says, not the thing; he’ll have tea up there; I’ll take it.”

Julia looked at Rawson-Clew and laughed.  “He does not feel equal to facing you,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” Johnny added, “that’s it; that’s what he says—­I mean”—­suddenly realising what he was saying—­“he does not feel equal to facing strangers.”

“Mr. Rawson-Clew is not a stranger,” Julia answered; she took a perverse delight in recalling the beginning of the acquaintance which she knew quite well was better ignored.  “How odd,” she said, turning to Rawson-Clew, “that father should have forgotten you, just as you told me you had forgotten him and all about the time when you saw him.”

“I expect he regarded the matter as trivial and unimportant, just as I did,” Rawson-Clew answered; “though if I told you I had forgotten all about it I made a mistake; I can hardly say that; I remember some details quite plainly; for instance, your position—­you stood between your father and me—­very much as you did between me and the Van Heigens.”

“I did not!” Julia said hotly, pouring the tea all over the edge of the cup; “I didn’t stand between you and the Van Heigens.  I mean—­”

“Allow me!” Rawson-Clew moved the cup so that she poured the tea into it and not the saucer.

“Dear, dear!” Johnny said; he had not the least idea what they were talking about, but he fancied that one or both must be annoyed, perhaps by the upsetting of the tea; he could think of nothing else.  “Such a mess,” he said; “and such a waste.  Is the cup ready?  Shall I take it up-stairs?”