"Mr. Emanuel?" James hazarded.
"Precisely. I had to put him to bed. He is certainly in for a very serious cold, and I trust—I fervently trust—it may not be bronchitis. That would mean nurses, and nothing upsets a house more than nurses. What happened, Mr. Ollerenshaw?"
James set the candle down on another Early Victorian chair, there being no occasional table at hand, and very slowly lowered himself to a sitting posture on a third.
"I'll tell you what happened, missis," he said, putting his hands on his knees.
And he told her, beginning with the loss of the ship and ocean, and ending with Helen's ever memorable words: "You must help me."
"That's what happened, missis," he said, grimly.
She had punctuated his recital by several exclamations, and when he had finished she gave rein to her sentiments.
"My dear Mr. Ollerenshaw," she said, in the kindest manner conceivable, "how I sympathise with you! How I wish I could help you!"
Her sympathy was a genuine comfort to him. He did not, in that instant, care a fig for Helen's notion about the direction of caps. He was simply and humanly eased by the sweet tones of this ample and comely dame. Besides, the idea of a woman such as Mrs. Prockter marrying a man such as him was (he knew) preposterous. She belonged to a little world which called him "Jimmy," whereas he belonged to a little world of his own. True, he was wealthy; but she was not poor—and no amount of money (he thought) could make a bridge to join those two worlds. Nevertheless, here she was, talking to him alone at ten o'clock at night—and not for the first time, either! Obviously, then, there was no nonsense about her, whatever nonsensical world she belonged to.
She ran over with sympathy. Having no further fear of Helen making trouble in her own family, she had all her feelings at liberty to condone with James.