“That will be very nice of you,” she flattered him, and rose.

Helen came home about ten o’clock, and went direct to bed.  Never before had James Ollerenshaw felt like a criminal, but as Helen’s eyes dwelt for a moment on his in bidding him good-night, he could scarcely restrain the blush of the evildoer.  And him sixty!  Turn which way he would he saw nothing but worry.  What an incredible day he had lived through!  And how astounding was human existence!

CHAPTER XII

BREAKFAST

He had an unsatisfactory night—­that is to say, in the matter of sleep.  In respect of sagacity he rose richer than he had lain down.  He had clearly perceived, about three a.m., that he was moving too much in circles which were foreign to him, and which called him “Jimmy.”  And at five a.m., when the first workmen’s car woke bumpily the echoes of the morn, he had perceived that Mrs. Prockter’s plan for separating Emanuel and Helen by bringing them together was not a wise plan.  Of course, Helen must not marry Emanuel Prockter.  The notion of such a union was ludicrous. (In spite of all the worry she was heaping upon him, he did not see any urgent reason why she should marry anybody.) But the proper method of nipping the orange-blossom in the bud was certainly to have a plain chat with Helen, one of those plain chats which can only occur, successfully, between plain, common-sense persons.  He was convinced that, notwithstanding Mrs. Prockter’s fears, Helen had not for an instant thought of Emanuel as a husband.  It was inconceivable that she, a girl so utterly sensible, should have done so.  And yet—­girls!  And Mrs. Prockter was no fool, come to think of it.  A sterling creature.  Not of his world, but nevertheless—­At this point he uneasily dozed.

However, he determined to talk with Helen that morning at breakfast.  He descended at half-past seven, as usual, full of a diplomatic intention to talk to Helen.  She was wholly sensible; she was a person to whom you could talk.  Still, tact would be needed.  Lack of sleep had rendered his nervous system such that he would have preferred to receive tact rather than to give it.  But, happily, he was a self-controlled man.

His post, which lay scattered on the tiles at the foot of the front door, did not interest him.  He put it aside, in its basket.  Nor could he work, according to his custom, at his accounts.  Even the sight of the unfilled-in credit-slips for the bank did not spur him to industry.  There can be no doubt that he was upset.

He walked across the room to the piles of Helen’s books against the wall, and in sheer absence of mind picked one up, and sat on a chair, on which he had never before sat, and began to read the volume.

Then the hurried, pretentious striking of the kitchen clock startled him.  Half-an-hour had passed in a moment.  He peeped into the kitchen.  Not a sign of breakfast!  Not a sign of the new servant, with her starched frills!  And for thirty years he had breakfasted at eight o’clock precisely.