might be rather more effective, to Mr. Gillat. She could tell him it
must not happen, and instruct him how to place obstacles in the way;
he would do his best to fulfil her requests, she was sure, even to
going down to Marbridge and establishing himself there about the time
of her father's intended departure. But with regard to the rest of her
mother's plans, or Chèrie's, whichever it might be, there seemed
nothing to be done. To write would be useless; to go home, even if she
swallowed her pride and did so, very little better; of course she had
not anything very definite to go upon, only a hint here and there, yet
she guessed pretty well what they were doing, what spending, and what
they thought to get by it. The old, long-headed Julia feared for the
result; Mrs. Polkington, clever though she undoubtedly was, had never
succeeded in big ventures; she had not the sort of mind for it; she
had never made a wholly successful big stride; her real climbing had
been done very slowly, so the old Julia feared for her. And the new
one, who had grown up during the past months, revolted against the
whole thing, finding it sordid, despicable, dishonourable even,
somehow all wrong. And perhaps because the old cautious Julia could do
nothing to avert the consequences, the newer nature was in the
ascendant that evening, and consequences were in time forgotten, and
disgust and weariness and shame--which included self and all things
connected with it--took possession of the girl.

By and by she heard a step behind her--Rawson-Clew. She had forgotten
his existence; she was almost sorry to be reminded of it; she felt so
ashamed of herself and her people, so conscious of the gulf between
them and him. So very conscious of this last that she suddenly felt
disinclined for the effort of struggling to hide or bridge it.

He caught up with her. "How has the crochet progressed this week under