And no Helen!  Was Helen laughing at him?  Was Helen treating him as an individual of no importance?  It was unimaginable that his breakfast should be late.  If anybody thought that he was going to—­No! he must not give way to righteous resentment.  Diplomacy!  Tact!  Forbearance!

But he would just go up to Helen’s room and rap, and tell her of the amazing and awful state of things on the ground-floor.  As a fact, she herself was late.  At that moment she appeared.

“Good-morning, uncle.”

She was cold, prim, cut off like China from human intercourse by a wall.

“Th’ servant has na’ come,” said he, straining to be tolerant and amicable.  He did his best to keep a grieved astonishment out of his voice; but he could not.

“Oh!” she murmured, calmly.  It was nothing to her, then, that James’s life should be turned upside down!  And she added, with icy detachment:  “I’m not surprised.  You’ll never get servants to be prompt in the morning when they don’t sleep in the house.  And there’s no room for Georgiana to sleep in the house.”

Georgiana!  Preposterous name!

“Mrs. Butt was always prompt.  I’ll say that for her,” he replied.

This, as he immediately recognised, was a failure in tact on his part.  So when she said quickly:  “I’m sure Mrs. Butt would be delighted to come back if you asked her,” he said nothing.

What staggered his intellect and his knowledge of human nature was that she remained absolutely unmoved by this appalling, unprecedented, and complete absence of any sign of breakfast at after eight o’clock.

Just then Georgiana came.  She had a key to the back door, and entered the house by way of the scullery.

“Good-morning, Georgiana,” Helen greeted her, going into the scullery—­much more kindly than she had greeted her uncle.  Instead of falling on Georgiana and slaying her, she practically embraced her.

A gas cooking-stove is a wondrous gift of Heaven.  You do not have to light it with yesterday’s paper, damp wood, and the remains of last night’s fire.  In twelve minutes not merely was the breakfast ready, but the kitchen was dusted, and there was a rose in a glass next to the bacon.  James had calmed himself by reading the book, and the period of waiting had really been very short.  As he fronted the bacon and the flower, Helen carefully shut the scullery door.  The Manchester Guardian lay to the left of his plate.  Thoughtful!  Altogether it was not so bad.

Further, she smiled in handing him his tea.  She, too, he observed, must have slept ill.  Her agreeable face was drawn.  But her blue-and-white-striped dress was impeccably put on.  It was severe, and yet very smooth.  It suited her mood.  It also suited his.  They faced each other, as self-controlled people do face each other at breakfast after white nights, disillusioned, tremendously sensible, wise, gently cynical, seeing the world with steady and just orbs.