The process of argument was over when Helen descended to put the finishing touches to a breakfast which she had evidently concocted with Georgiana the night before.

“Breakfast is ready, uncle,” she called to him.

He obeyed.  Flowers on the table once more!  The first since her departure!  A clean cloth!  A general, inexplicable tuning-up of the meal’s frame.

You would now, perhaps, have expected him to yield, as gracefully as an old man can.  He wanted to yield.  He hungered to yield.  He knew that it was utterly for his own good to yield.  But if you seriously expected him to yield, your knowledge of human nature lacks depth.  Something far stronger than argument, something far stronger than desire for his own happiness, prevented him from yielding.  Pride, a silly self-conceit, the greatest enemy of the human race, forbade him to yield.  For, on the previous night, Helen had snubbed him—­and not for the first time.  He could not accept the snub with meekness, though it would have paid him handsomely to do so, though as a Christian and a philosopher he ought to have done so.  He could not.

So he put on a brave face, pretended to accept the situation with contented calm, and talked as if Canada was the next street, and as if her going was entirely indifferent to him.  Helen imitated him.

It was a lovely morning; not a cloud in the sky—­only in their hearts.

“Uncle!” she said after breakfast was done and cleared away.

He was counting rents in his cashbox in the front parlour, and she had come to him, and was leaning over his shoulder.

“Well, lass?”

“Have you got twenty-five pounds in that box?”

It was obvious that he had.

“I shouldna’ be surprised,” said he.

“I wish you’d lend it me.”

“What for?”

“I want to go over to Hanbridge and book my berth, definitely, and I’ve no loose cash.”

Now here was a chance to yield.  But no.

“Dost mean to say,” he exclaimed, “as ye havena’ booked your berth?  When does th’ steamer sail?”

“There’s one from Glasgow next Saturday,” said she—­“the Saskatchewan.  I secured the berth, but I didn’t pay for it.”

“It’s a rare lot of money,” he observed.

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t want all that for the fare.  I’ve other things to pay for—­railway to Glasgow, etc.  You will lend it me, won’t you?”

Her fingers were already in the cashbox.  She was behaving just like a little girl, like a spoilt child.  It was remarkable, he considered, how old and mature Helen could be when she chose, and how kittenish when she chose.

She went off with four five-pound notes and five sovereigns.  “Will you ask me to come back and cook the dinner?” she smiled, ironically, enchantingly.

“Ay!” he said.  He was bound to smile also.

She returned in something over two hours.