His mind then unfortunately got entangled in the painful episode of the ten-pound note. He and Helen had the same blood in their veins. They were alike in some essential traits. He knew that neither of them could ever persuade himself, or herself, to mention that miserable ten-pound note again.
"If I gave her a tenner," he said, "that would make her see as I'd settled to forget that business, and let bygones be bygones. I'll give her a tenner."
It was preposterous. She could not, of course, spend it. She would put it away. So it would not be wasted.
Upon this he rose.
Poor simpleton! Ever since the commencement of his relations with Helen, surprise had followed surprise for him. And the series was not ended.
The idea of giving a gift made him quite nervous. He fumbled in his cashbox for quite a long time, and then he called, nervously:
"Helen!"
She came out of the kitchen into the front room. (Dress: White muslin—unspeakable extravagance in a town of smuts.)
"It's thy birthday, lass?"
She nodded, smiling.