However, he determined to talk with Helen that morning at breakfast. He
descended at half-past seven, as usual, full of a diplomatic intention
to talk to Helen. She was wholly sensible; she was a person to whom you
_could_ talk. Still, tact would be needed. Lack of sleep had rendered
his nervous system such that he would have preferred to receive tact
rather than to give it. But, happily, he was a self-controlled man.

His post, which lay scattered on the tiles at the foot of the front
door, did not interest him. He put it aside, in its basket. Nor could he
work, according to his custom, at his accounts. Even the sight of the
unfilled-in credit-slips for the bank did not spur him to industry.
There can be no doubt that he was upset.

He walked across the room to the piles of Helen's books against the
wall, and in sheer absence of mind picked one up, and sat on a chair, on
which he had never before sat, and began to read the volume.

Then the hurried, pretentious striking of the kitchen clock startled
him. Half-an-hour had passed in a moment. He peeped into the kitchen.
Not a sign of breakfast! Not a sign of the new servant, with her
starched frills! And for thirty years he had breakfasted at eight
o'clock precisely.

And no Helen! Was Helen laughing at him? Was Helen treating him as an
individual of no importance? It was unimaginable that his breakfast
should be late. If anybody thought that he was going to--No! he must not
give way to righteous resentment. Diplomacy! Tact! Forbearance!

But he would just go up to Helen's room and rap, and tell her of the
amazing and awful state of things on the ground-floor. As a fact, she