“Uncle!” she protested.  “How can you say such a thing?  You ought to know that no such idea ever entered my head.”

He did know that no such idea had ever entered her head, and he was secretly puzzling for the real reason of her projected refusal.  But, being determined that she should go, he had employed the surest and the least scrupulous means of achieving his end.

He tapped nervously on the table, and maintained the silence of the wounded and the proud.

“Of course, if you take it in that way,” she said, after a pause, “I will go.”

And he went through the comedy of gradually recovering from a wound.

His boldness in accepting the invitation and in compelling Helen to accompany him was the audacity of sheer ignorance.  He had not surmised the experiences which lay before him.  She told him to order a cab.  She did not suggest the advisability of a cab.  She stated, as a platitude, the absolute indispensability of a cab.  He had meant to ride to Hillport in the tramcar, which ran past Mrs. Prockter’s gates.  However, he reluctantly agreed to order a cab, being fearful lest she might, after all, refuse to go.  It was remarkable that, after having been opposed to the policy of throwing Helen and Emanuel together, he was now in favour of it.

On the evening, when at five minutes past nine she came into the front room clad for Mrs. Prockter’s party, he perceived that the tramcar would have been unsuitable.  A cab might hold her.  A hansom would certainly not have held her.  She was all in white, and very complicated.  No hat; simply a white, silver-spangled bandage round her head, neck, and shoulders!

She glanced at him.  He wore his best black clothes.  “You look very well,” said she, surprisingly.  “That old-fashioned black necktie is splendid.”

So they went.  James had the peculiar illusion that he was going to a belated funeral, for except at funerals he had never in his life ridden in a cab.

When he descended with his fragile charge in Mrs. Prockter’s illuminated porch, another cab was just ploughing up the gravel of the drive in departure, and nearly the whole tribe of Swetnams was on the doorstep; some had walked, and were boasting of speed.  There were Sarah Swetnam, her brother Ted, the lawyer, her brother Ronald, the borough surveyor, her brother Adams, the bank cashier, and her sister Enid, aged seventeen.  This child was always called “Jos” by the family, because they hated the name “Enid,” which they considered to be “silly.”  Lilian, the newly-affianced one, was not in the crowd.

“Where’s Lilian?” Helen asked, abruptly.

“Oh, she came earlier with the powerful Andrew,” replied the youthful and rather jealous Jos.  “She isn’t an ordinary girl now.”

Sarah rapidly introduced her brothers and sisters to James.  They were all very respectful and agreeable; and Adams Swetnam pressed his hand quite sympathetically, and Jos’s frank smile was delicious.  What surprised him was that nobody seemed surprised at his being there.  None of the girls wore hats, he noticed, and he also noticed that the three men (all about thirty in years) wore silk hats, white mufflers, and blue overcoats.