And Mijnheer beamed with satisfaction in his son and his blue
daffodil. But Julia leaned against the stand in the dry twilight,
saying nothing. Money, it appeared, was not then the measure of all
things; neither intrinsically, as with Mr. Alexander Cross, nor for
what it represented in comfort and position, as with her own family,
did it rank with these bulb growers. They, these people whom her
mother would have called market gardeners, tradespeople, it seemed,
loved and reverenced their work; they thought about it and for it,
were proud of it and valued distinction in it, and nothing else. The
blue daffodil was no valuable commercial asset, it was an honour and
glory, an unparalleled floral distinction--no wonder Cross could not
buy or exploit it. In a jump Julia comprehended the situation more
fully than that astute business man ever could; but at the same time
she felt a little bitter amusement--it was this, this treasured
wonder, that she thought to obtain.

The next day, Sunday, Julia went to church with Mijnheer and Joost;
Mevrouw did not find herself well enough for church, but she insisted
that Julia should not stay at home on her account. Accordingly the
girl accompanied father and son to the Groote Kerk and listened to
the rather dull service there. For the most part she sat with her eyes
demurely cast down, though once or twice she looked round the old
barn-like place, and wondered if there were any frescoes under the
whitewash of the walls and whence came the faint, all pervading smell,
like a phantom of incense long forgotten. When service was over and
they came out into the sunny street, Mijnheer announced that he was
going to see a friend. Julia, of course, must hurry home to set the
table for the mid-day coffee drinking, and afterwards prepare for
dinner. Joost was going back, likewise, and to her it was so natural a