“I never did,” James put in.

“But what does that matter?  He is polite.  He does know how to behave himself in polite society.  If Andrew Dean pushed him into the water, that wasn’t his fault.  Andrew is stronger than he is, but that’s no credit to Andrew Dean.  It’s to his discredit.  Andrew Dean is nothing but a bully—­we all know that.  He might have pushed you into the water, or me.”

“He might,” James admitted, “if I’d been silly enough to get between the water and him.”

“And I should like to know who looked a fool when Andrew Dean fell off those steps.  And just listen to the language the man used.  I will say this for Emanuel Prockter—­I never heard him swear.”

“No,” said James.  “He wears gloves.  He even wears ’em when he takes his bath of a November afternoon.”

“I don’t care who knows it,” Helen observed, hotly, “I like Emanuel Prockter.”

“There’s nobody as dunna’ know it,” said James.  “It’s the talk of Bosley as you’ve set your cap at him.”

“I don’t wear caps,” said Helen.  “I’m not a servant.”

“Hat, then,” James corrected himself.  “Ye’ll not deny as you wear hats, I reckon.  I’ve seen ye in forty.”

“I know who started that tale,” Helen exploded.  “Andrew Dean started that tale.”

“No,” said James.  “It was Mrs. Prockter, I’m thinking.”

“Has Mrs. Prockter spoken to you about me and—­and Emanuel?”

James hesitated.  But the devil-may-care, agreeably vicious Ollerenshaw impulses were afoot in him, and he did not hesitate long.

“Her has,” said he.

“What a ridiculous, fat old woman she is, with her fancies!”

Frankly, James did not like this.  He was in a mind to resent it, and then a certain instinct of self-preservation prompted him to seek cover in silence.  But in any battle of the sexes silence is no cover to the male, as he ought to have known.

Helen pursued him behind his cover.  “I wonder who she’s setting her cap at!  I suppose you’ll not deny that she wears a cap?”

It was quite a long time since James Ollerenshaw had blushed; but he blushed at these words.  Nothing could have been more foolish, inept, on his part.  Why should he blush because Helen expressed a vague, hostile curiosity as to the direction of Mrs. Prockter’s cap?  What had the direction of Mrs. Prockter’s cap to do with him?  Yet blush he did.  He grew angry, not—­curiously enough—­with Helen, but with himself and with Mrs. Prockter.  His anger had the strange effect of making him an arrant coward.  He got up from his chair, having pushed away his cup towards the centre of the table.  As tea was over he was within his rights in doing so.

“I mun be getting to work again,” he muttered.

“Please do wait a minute, uncle,” she said, imperiously.  “Can’t you see I want to talk to you?  Can’t you see I’ve got something on my mind?”