He was utterly unaccustomed to such crises. Despite his wealthy
indifference to Mrs. Prockter, despite his distinguished scorn of
Emanuel, despite the richness of Helen's attire, he was astounded, and
deeply impressed, to learn that Helen had the acquaintance of people
like the Prockters. Further, except at grave-sides, James Ollerenshaw
had never in his life raised his hat. Hat-raising formed no part of his
code of manners. In his soul he looked upon hat-raising as affected. He
believed that all people who raised hats did so from a snobbish desire
to put on airs. Hat-raising was rather like saying "please," only worse.

Happily, his was one of those strong, self-reliant natures that can,
when there is no alternative, face the most frightful situations with
unthumping heart. He kept his presence of mind, and decided in the
fraction of a second what he must do. The faculty of instant decision is
indispensable to safety in these swift-rising crises.

He raised his hat, praying that Helen would not stop to speak. Not
gracefully, not with the beauteous curves of an Emanuel did he raise his
hat--but he raised it. His prayer was answered.

"There!" his chest said to Helen. "If you thought I didn't know how to
behave to your conceited acquaintances, you were mistaken."

And his casual, roving eye pretended that hat-raising was simply the
most ordinary thing on earth.

Such was the disturbing incident which ended the bleeding of his
dignity. In order to keep up the pretence that hat-raising was a normal
function of his daily life he was obliged to talk freely; and he did
talk freely. But neither he nor Helen said a word as to the Prockters.