“Nothing,” said Helen, calmly.

“But surely you shake hands with Andrew when you meet him, don’t you?”

“That depends how I feel, my dear,” said Helen.

“Then something is the matter?”

“If you want to know,” said Helen, with haughtiness, “in the hall, just now—­that is—­I—­I overheard Mr. Dean say something about Emanuel Prockter’s singing which I consider very improper.”

“But we all——­”

“I’m going out into the garden,” said Helen.

“A pretty how-d’ye-do!” James muttered inaudibly to himself as he meandered to and fro in the hall, observing the manners and customs of Hillport society.  Another couple were now occupying the privacy of the seat at the end of the side-hall, and James noticed that the heads of this couple had precisely the same relative positions as the heads of the previous couple.  “Bless us!” he murmured, apropos of the couple, who, seeing in him a spy, rose and fled.  Then he resumed his silent soliloquy.  “A pretty how-d’ye-do!  The chit’s as fixed on that there Emanuel Prockter as ever a chit could be!” And yet James had caught the winking with Jos Swetnam during the song!  As an enigma, Helen grew darker and darker to him.  He was almost ready to forswear his former belief, and to assert positively that Helen had no sense whatever.

Mrs. Prockter loomed up, disengaged.  “Ah, Mr. Ollerenshaw,” she said, “everybody seems to be choosing the garden.  Shall we go there?  This way.”

She led him down the side-hall.  “By the bye,” she murmured, with a smile, “I think our plan is succeeding.”

And, without warning him, she sat down in the seat, and of course he joined her, and she put her head close to his, evidently in a confidential mood.

“Bless us!” he said to himself, apropos of himself and Mrs. Prockter, glancing about for spies.

“It’s horrid of me to make fun of poor dear Emanuel’s singing,” pursued Mrs. Prockter.  “But how did she take it?  If I am not mistaken, she winked.”

“Her winked,” said James; “yes, her winked.”

“Then everything’s all right.”

“Missis,” said he, “if you don’t mind what ye’re about, you’ll have a daughter-in-law afore you can say ’knife’!”

“Not Helen?”

“Ay, Helen.”

“But, Mr. Ollerenshaw——­”

Here happened an interruption—­a servant with a tray of sustenance, comprising more champagne.  James, prudent, would have refused, but under the hospitable urgency of Mrs. Prockter he compromised—­and yielded.

“I’ll join ye.”

So she joined him.  Then a string of young people passed the end of the side-hall, and among them was Jos Swetnam, who capered up to the old couple on her long legs.

“Oh, Mrs. Prockter,” she cried, “what a pity we can’t dance on the lawn!”

“I wish you could, my dear,” said Mrs. Prockter.

“And why can’t ye?” demanded James.