He raised his hat, praying that Helen would not stop to speak.  Not gracefully, not with the beauteous curves of an Emanuel did he raise his hat—­but he raised it.  His prayer was answered.

“There!” his chest said to Helen.  “If you thought I didn’t know how to behave to your conceited acquaintances, you were mistaken.”

And his casual, roving eye pretended that hat-raising was simply the most ordinary thing on earth.

Such was the disturbing incident which ended the bleeding of his dignity.  In order to keep up the pretence that hat-raising was a normal function of his daily life he was obliged to talk freely; and he did talk freely.  But neither he nor Helen said a word as to the Prockters.

CHAPTER VI

MRS. BUTT’S DEPARTURE

James Ollerenshaw’s house was within a few hundred yards of the top of Trafalgar-road, on the way from Bursley to Hanbridge.  I may not indicate the exact house, but I can scarcely conceal that it lay between Nos. 160 and 180, on the left as you go up.  It was one of the oldest houses in the street, and though bullied into insignificance by sundry detached and semi-detached villas opposite—­palaces occupied by reckless persons who think nothing of paying sixty or even sixty-five pounds a year for rent alone—­it kept a certain individuality and distinction because it had been conscientiously built of good brick before English domestic architecture had lost trace of the Georgian style.  First you went up two white steps (white in theory), through a little gate in a wrought-iron railing painted the colour of peas after they have been cooked in a bad restaurant.  You then found yourself in a little front yard, twelve feet in width (the whole width of the house) by six feet in depth.  The yard was paved with large square Indian-red tiles, except a tiny circle in the midst bordered with black-currant-coloured tiles set endwise with a scolloped edge.  This magical circle contained earth, and in the centre of it was a rhododendron bush which, having fallen into lazy habits, had forgotten the art of flowering.  Its leaves were a most pessimistic version of the tint of the railing.

The facade of the house comprised three windows and a door—­that is to say, a window and a door on the ground floor and two windows above.  The brickwork was assuredly admirable; James had it “pointed” every few years.  Over the windows the bricks, of special shapes, were arranged as in a flat arch, with a keystone that jutted slightly.  The panes of the windows were numerous and small; inside, on the sashes, lay long thin scarlet sausages of red cloth and sawdust, to keep out the draughts.  The door was divided into eight small panels with elaborate beadings, and over it was a delicate fanlight—­one of about a score in Bursley—­to remind the observer of a lost elegance.  Between the fanlight and the upstairs window exactly above it was a rusty iron plaque, with vestiges in gilt of the word “Phoenix.”  It had been put there when fire insurance had still the fancied charm of novelty.  At the extremity of the facade farthest from the door a spout came down from the blue-slate roof.  This spout began with a bold curve from the projecting horizontal spout under the eaves, and made another curve at the ground into a hollow earthenware grid with very tiny holes.