XVIII
Siedmund had shaved and dressed, and come down to breakfast. Mrs. Curtiss brought in the coffee. She was a fragile little woman, of delicate, gentle manner.
“The water would be warm this morning,” she said, addressing no one in particular.
Siegmund stood on the hearthrug with his hands behind him, swaying from one leg to the other. He was embarrassed always by the presence of the amiable little woman; he could not feel at ease before strangers, in his capacity of accepted swain of Helena.
“It was,” assented Helena. “It was as warm as new milk.”
“Ay, it would be,” said the old lady, looking in admiration upon the experience of Siegmund and his beloved. “And did ye see the ships of war?” she asked.
“No, they had gone,” replied Helena.
Siegmund swayed from foot to foot, rythmically.
“You’ll be coming in to dinner to-day?” asked the old lady.
Helena arranged the matter.
“I think ye both look better,” Mrs. Curtiss said. She glanced at Siegmund.
He smiled constrainedly.
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