“I shall beat her, as sure as eggs!” he told himself.

“All this means that he’ll give in when it comes to the point,” she told herself.

And aloud she said:  “Have you had supper, uncle?”

“No,” he replied.

The next development was that, without another word, she removed her gloves, lifted her pale hands to her head, and slowly drew hatpins from her hat.  Then she removed her hat, and plunged the pins into it again.  He could scarcely refrain from snatching off his own tasselled Turkish cap and pitching it in the air.  He felt as if he had won the Battle of Hastings, or defeated the captain of the bowling club in a single-handed match.

“And to think,” he reflected, “that I should ha’ given in to her by this time if I hadn’t got more sense in my little finger than—­” etc.

“I think I’ll stay and cook you a bit of supper,” said Helen.  “I suppose Georgiana is in the kitchen?”

“If her isn’t, her’s in the back entry,” said Jimmy.

“What’s she doing in the back entry?”

“Counting the stars,” said Jimmy; “and that young man as comes with the bread helping her, most like.”

“I must talk to that girl.”  Helen rose.

“Ye may,” said Jimmy; “but th’ baker’s man’ll have th’ last word, or times is changed.”

He was gay.  He could not conceal his gaiety.  He saw himself freed from the menace of the thraldom of Mrs. Butt.  He saw himself gourmandising over the meals that Helen alone could cook.  He saw himself trotting up and down the streets of Bursley with the finest, smartest lass in the Five Towns by his side.  And scarcely a penny of extra expenditure!  And all this happy issue due to his diplomatic and histrionic skill!  The fact was, Helen really liked him.  There could be no doubt about that.  She liked him, and she would not leave him.  Also, she was a young woman of exceptional common sense, and, being such, she would not risk the loss of a large fortune merely for the sake of indulging pique engendered by his refusal to gratify a ridiculous caprice.

Before she had well quitted the room he saw with clearness that he was quite the astutest man in the world, and that Helen was clay in his hands.

The sound of crockery in the scullery, and the cheerful little explosion when the gas-ring was ignited, and the low mutter of conversation that ensued between Helen and Georgiana—­these phenomena were music to the artist in him.  He extracted the concertina from its case and began to play “The Dead March in Saul.”  Not because his sentiments had a foundation in the slightest degree funereal, but because he could perform “The Dead March in Saul” with more virtuosity than any other piece except “The Hallelujah Chorus.”  And he did not desire to insist too much on his victory by filling Trafalgar-road with “The Hallelujah Chorus.”  He was discretion itself.