The Halgrave carrier made it a rule to receive his passengers' fares at the beginning of the expedition; if they were coming back as well as going with him they paid for the double journey at the outset in the morning. Captain Polkington had so paid, and it was that fact, coupled with the early arrival at the stables of his one purchase, which induced the carrier to wait nearly half-an-hour for him. The cart was packed, everything was ready, and the good man and the only other passenger he was taking back were growing impatient, when the Captain, carrying a small crushed paper parcel, appeared. He had lost his way to the stables and had wandered hopelessly in his efforts to find it. 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.
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 as cunning as he. He had done what he had, badly of course he could not do otherwise--a foredained failure such as he--bungled it hopelessly; but the idea was the same--a bad travesty of a bad idea, badly worked out. For a moment her mind glanced aside from the main issue in disgust and contempt for the method. It was sin without genius, a puerile theft without adequate return, a miserable fall, and for such a purpose! To expect to find the streaked daffodil unguarded in an outhouse! To sell it for five pounds and think to spend the money on creature comforts! It is hard to say which of the three was the worst. The really good have little idea how such fool's knavery looks to the shadily clever; it brings home to them the wrongness of wrong, disgusting them with it and with themselves, as no preaching in the world can.