The remainder of that afternoon was like a bewildering dream to James Ollerenshaw.  His front room seemed to be crowded with a multitude of peacocks, that would have been more at home under the sun of Mrs. Prockter’s lawns up at Hillport.  Yet there were only three persons present besides himself.  But decidedly they were not of his world; they were of the world that referred to him as “old Jimmy Ollerenshaw,” or briefly as “Jimmy.”  And he had to sit and listen to them, and even to answer coherently when spoken to.  Emanuel Prockter was brilliant.  He had put his hat on one chair and his cane across another, and he conversed with ducal facility.  The two things about him that puzzled the master of the house were—­first, why he was not, at such an hour, engaged in at any rate the pretence of earning his living; and, second, why he did not take his gloves off.  No notion of work seemed to exist in the minds of the three.  They chattered of tennis, novels, music, and particularly of amateur operatic societies.  James acquired the information that Emanuel was famous as a singer of songs.  The topic led then naturally to James’s concertina; the talk lightly caressed James’s concertina, and then Emanuel swept it off to the afternoon tea-room of the new Midland Grand Hotel at Manchester, where Emanuel had lately been.  And that led to the Old Oak Tree tea-house in Bond-street, where, not to be beaten by Emanuel, Sarah Swetnam had lately been.

“Suppose we have tea,” said Helen.

And she picked up a little brass bell which stood on the central table and tinkled it.  James had not noticed the bell.  It was one of the many little changes that Helen had introduced.  Each change by itself was a nothing—­what is one small bell in a house?—­yet in the mass they amounted to much.  The bell was obviously new.  She must have bought it; but she had not mentioned it to him.  And how could they all sit at the tiny table in the kitchen?  Moreover, he had no fancy for entertaining the whole town of Bursley to meals.  However, the immediate prospect of tea produced in James a feeling of satisfaction, even though he remained in perfect ignorance of the methods by which Helen meant to achieve the tea.  She had rung the bell, and gone on talking, as if the tea would cook itself and walk in on its hind legs and ask to be eaten.

Then the new servant entered with a large tray.  James had never seen such a servant, a servant so entirely new.  She was wearing a black frock and various parts of the frock, and the top of her head, were covered with stiffly-starched white linen—­or was it cotton?  Her apron, which had two pockets, was more elaborate than an antimacassar.  Helen coolly instructed her to place the tray on his desk; which she did, brushing irreverently aside a number of rent books.

On the tray there was nothing whatever to eat but a dozen slices of the thinnest conceivable bread and butter.

Helen rose.  Emanuel also rose.