of the hall, and similar fires were burning in the state bedroom, in a little drawing-room beyond the main drawing-room, in another bedroom, in the giant’s kitchen, and in one of the attics.  These fires and a certain amount of cleaning were the only preparations which Helen had permitted herself to make.  Even the expense of the coal had startled James, and she proposed to get him safely in the cage before commencing the serious business which would shatter all his nerves.  By a miracle of charm and audacity she had obtained from him the control of a sum of seven hundred and fifty pounds.  This sum, now lying nominally to her credit at one of James’s various banks, represented the difference between eight thousand pounds (at which James had said Wilbraham Hall would be cheap) and seven thousand two hundred and fifty pounds (at which James had succeeded in buying Wilbraham Hall).

To the left of the hall, near the entrance, was quite a small room (originally, perhaps, a butler’s lair), and James was obstinate in selecting this room as his office.  He had his desk carried there, and everything that personally affected him except his safe and the simple necessaries of his bedroom.  These were taken, not to the state bedroom, which he had declined, after insincere pressure from Helen to accept it, but to a much smaller sleeping-chamber.  The numerous family of Windsor chairs, together with other ancient honesties, were sent up to attics—­too old at forty!  Georgiana was established in a glorious attic; the state bedroom was strewn with Helen’s gear; and scarcely anything remained unniched in the Hall save the ship and ocean.  They all rested from their labours, and Helen was moved by one of her happiest inspirations.

“Georgiana,” she said, “go and make some tea.  Bring a cup for yourself.”

“Yes, miss.  Thank you, miss.”

On removal days miserable distinctions of class are invariably lost in the large-heartedness of mutual endeavour.

It was while the trio were thus drinking tea together, standing, and, as it were, with loins still girt after the pilgrimage, that the first visitor to the new owners of Wilbraham Hall rang its great bell and involved Georgiana in her first ceremonial duty.  Georgiana was quite nervous as she went to the door.

The caller was Emanuel Prockter.

“Mother thought I might perhaps be able to help you,” said he, in the slightly simpering tone which he adopted in delicate situations, and which he thought suited him.  What made the situation delicate, to him, was Helen’s apron—­quite agreeable though the apron was.  He felt, with his unerring perceptiveness, that young ladies do not care to receive young gentlemen in the apron of a Georgiana.  His own attire was, as usual, fabulously correct; the salient features of it being a pair of light yellow chamois gloves, loose-fitting and unbuttoned, with the gauntlets negligently turned back.  These gloves were his method of expressing the fact that the visit was a visit of usefulness and not a kid-glove visit.  But Helen seemed quite composed behind Georgiana’s apron.