He opened the door, and put the candle on the floor behind it, where he could easily find it on returning.  “I’ll get a box o’ matches from somewhere while I’m out,” said he.

He was about to extinguish the candle when she stopped him.  “Mr. Ollerenshaw,” she said, firmly, “you haven’t got your boots on.  Those slippers are not thick enough for this weather.”

He gazed at her.  Should he yield to her?  The idea of yielding to her, for the mere sake of yielding to her, presented itself to him as a charming idea.  So he disappeared with the candle, and reappeared in his boots.

“You won’t need a muffler?” she suggested.

Now was the moment to play the hardy Norseman.  “Oh, no!” he laughed.

This concern for his welfare, coming from such a royal creature, was, however, immensely agreeable.

She stood out on the steps; he extinguished the candle, and then joined her and banged the door.  They started.  Several hundred yards of winding pitch-dark drive had to be traversed.

“Will you kindly give me your arm?” she said.

She said it so primly, so correctly, and with such detachment, that they might have been in church, and she saying:  “Will you kindly let me look over your Prayer Book?”

When they arrived at the gas-lit Oldcastle-road he wanted to withdraw his arm, but he did not know how to begin withdrawing it.  Hence he was obliged to leave it where it was.

And as they were approaching the front gate of the residence of Mr. Buchanan, the Scotch editor of the Signal, a perfect string of people emerged from that front gate.  Mrs. Buchanan had been giving a whist drive.  There were sundry Swetnams among the string.  And the whole string was merry and talkative.  It was a fine night.  The leading pearls of the string bore down on the middle-aged pair, and peered, and passed.

“Good-night, Mrs. Prockter.  Good-night, Mr. Ollerenshaw.”

Then another couple did the same.  “Good-night, Mrs. Prockter.  Good-night, Mr. Ollerenshaw.”

And so it went on.  And the string, laughing and talking, gradually disappeared diminuendo in the distance towards Bursley.

“I suppose you know you’ve done it this time?” observed Mrs. Prockter.

It was a dark saying, but James fully understood it.  He felt as though he had drunk champagne.  “As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!” he said to himself.  And deliberately squeezed the royal arm.

Nothing violent happened.  He had rather expected the heavens to fall, or that at least Mrs. Prockter would exclaim:  “Unhand me, monster!” But nothing violent happened.

“And this is me, James Ollerenshaw!” he said to himself, still squeezing.

CHAPTER XXV

GIRLISH CONFIDENCES

One afternoon Sarah Swetnam called, and Helen in person opened the great door to the visitor.