and the other to himself.  Obviously they came from the world which referred to him as “Jimmy.”  He was not used to being thrilled by mere envelopes, but now he became conscious of a slight quickening of pulsation.  He opened his own envelope—­the paper was more like a blanket than paper, and might have been made from the material of a child’s untearable picture-book.  He had to use a stout paper-knife, and when he did get into the envelope he felt like a burglar.

The discerning and shrewd ancient had guessed the contents.  He had feared, and he had also hoped, that the contents would comprise an invitation to Mrs. Prockter’s house at Hillport.  They did; and more than that.  The signature was Mrs. Prockter’s, and she had written him a four-page letter.  “My dear Mr. Ollerenshaw.”  “Believe me, yours most cordially and sincerely, Flora Prockter.”

Flora!

The strangest thing, perhaps, in all this strange history is that he thought the name suited her.

He had no intention of accepting the invitation.  Not exactly!  But he enjoyed receiving it.  It constituted a unique event in his career.  And the wording of it was very agreeable.  Mrs. Prockter proceeded thus:  “In pursuance of our plan”—­our plan!—­“I am also inviting your niece.  Indeed, I have gathered from Emanuel that he considers her as the prime justification of the party.  We will throw them together.  She will hear him sing.  She has never heard him sing.  If this does not cure her, nothing will, though he has a nice voice.  I hope it will be a fine night, so that we may take the garden.  I did not thank you half enough for the exceedingly kind way in which you received my really unpardonable visit the other evening,” etc.

James had once heard Emanuel Prockter sing, at a concert given in aid of something which deserved every discouragement, and he agreed with Mrs. Prockter; not that he pretended to know anything about singing.

He sat down again, to compose a refusal to the invitation; but before he had written more than a few words it had transformed itself into an acceptance.  He was aware of the entire ridiculousness of his going to an evening party at Mrs. Prockter’s; still an instinct, powerful but obscure (it was the will-to-live and naught else), persuaded him by force to say that he would go.

“Have you had an invitation from Mrs. Prockter?” Helen asked him at tea.

“Yes,” said he.  “Have you?”

“Yes,” said she.  “Shall you go?”

“Ay, lass, I shall go.”

She seemed greatly surprised.

“Us’ll go together,” he said.

“I don’t think that I shall go,” said she, hesitatingly.

“Have ye written to refuse?”

“No.”

“Then I should advise ye to go, my lass.”

“Why?”

“Unless ye want to have trouble with me,” said he, grimly.

“But, uncle——­”

“It’s no good butting uncle,” he replied.  “If ye didna’ mean to go, why did ye give young Prockter to understand as ye would go?  I’ll tell ye why ye changed your mind, lass.  It’s because you’re ashamed o’ being seen there with yer old uncle, and I’m sorry for it.”