“Shall I not go down to Cornwall?”
By her soothing willingness to do anything for him Siegmund knew that she was dogging him closely. He could not bear to have his anxiety protracted.
“But you have promised Louisa, have you not?” he replied.
“Oh, well!” she said, in the peculiar slighting tone she had when she wished to convey the unimportance of affairs not touching him.
“Then you must go,” he said.
“But,” she began, with harsh petulance, “I do not want to go down to Cornwall with Louisa and Olive”—she accentuated the two names—“after this,” she added.
“Then Louisa will have no holiday—and you have promised,” he said gravely.
Helena looked at him. She saw he had decided that she should go.
“Is my promise so very important?” she asked. She glanced angrily at the three ladies who were hesitating in the doorway. Nevertheless, the ladies entered, and seated themselves at the opposite end of the carriage. Siegmund did not know whether he were displeased or relieved by their intrusion. If they had stayed out, he might have held Helena in his arms for still another hour. As it was, she could not harass him with words. He tried not to look at her, but to think.
The train at last moved out of the station. As it passed through Portsmouth, Siegmund remembered his coming down, on the Sunday. It seemed an indefinite age ago. He was thankful that he sat on the side of the carriage opposite from the one he had
