Having satisfied her obstinacy by sitting down on the seat of her choice, she might surely—­one would think—­have ended a mysteriously difficult situation by rising again and departing, of course with due dignity.  But no!  She could not!  She wished to do so, but she could not command her limbs.  She just sat there, in horridest torture, like a stoical fly on a pin—­one of those flies that pretend that nothing hurts.  The agony might have been prolonged to centuries had not an extremely startling and dramatic thing happened—­the most startling and dramatic thing that ever happened either to James Ollerenshaw or to the young woman.  James Ollerenshaw spoke, and I imagine that nobody was more surprised than James Ollerenshaw by his brief speech, which slipped out of him quite unawares.  What he said was: 

“Well, lass, how goes it, like?”

If the town could have heard him, the town would have rustled from boundary to boundary with agitated and delicious whisperings.

The young woman, instead of being justly incensed by this monstrous molestation from an aged villain who had not been introduced to her, gave a little jump (as though relieved from the spell of an enchantment), and then deliberately turned and faced Mr. Ollerenshaw.  She also smiled, amid her roses.

“Very well indeed, thank you,” she replied, primly, but nicely.

Upon this, they both of them sought to recover—­from an affair that had occurred in the late seventies.

In the late seventies James Ollerenshaw had been a young-old man of nearly thirty.  He had had a stepbrother, much older and much poorer than himself, and the stepbrother had died, leaving a daughter, named Susan, almost, but not quite, in a state of indigence.  The stepbrother and James had not been on terms of effusive cordiality.  But James was perfectly ready to look after Susan, his stepniece.  Susan, aged seventeen years, was, however, not perfectly ready to be looked after.  She had a little money, and she earned a little (by painting asters on toilet ware), and the chit was very rude to her stepuncle.  In less than a year she had married a youth of twenty, who apparently had not in him even the rudiments of worldly successfulness.  James Ollerenshaw did his avuncular duty by formally and grimly protesting against the marriage.  But what authority has a stepuncle?  Susan defied him, with a maximum of unforgettable impoliteness; and she went to live with her husband at Longshaw, which is at the other end of the Five Towns.  The fact became public that a solemn quarrel existed between James and Susan, and that each of them had sworn not to speak until the other spoke.  James would have forgiven, if she had hinted at reconciliation.  And, hard as it is for youth to be in the wrong, Susan would have hinted at reconciliation if James had not been so rich.  The riches of James offended Susan’s independence.  Not for millions would she have exposed herself to the suspicion that she had broken