(Though, indeed, Helen's chief detail had been his remarkable expedient for checking bloodshed.)
Kipps became bright pink. "She said you didn't seem to feel it a bit."
Kipps felt he would have to spend weeks over "The Art of Conversing."
While he still hung fire Helen returned with the apparatus for afternoon tea upon a tray.
"Do you mind pulling out the table?" asked Mrs. Walshingham.
That, again, was very homelike. Kipps put down his hat and stick in the corner and, amidst an iron thunder, pulled out a little, rusty, green-painted table, and then in the easiest manner followed Helen in to get chairs.
So soon as he had got rid of his teacup—he refused all food, of course, and they were merciful—he became wonderfully at his ease. Presently he was talking. He talked quite modestly and simply about his changed condition and his difficulties and plans. He spread what indeed had an air of being all his simple little soul before his eyes. In a little while his clipped, defective accent had become less perceptible to their ears, and they began to realise, as the girl with the freckles had long since realised, that there were passable aspects of Kipps. He confided, he submitted, and for both of them he had the realest, the most seductively flattering undertone of awe and reverence.
He stopped about two hours, having forgotten how terribly incorrect it is to stay at such a length. They did not mind at all.