“Yes—I will—I’ll see you off.”
Mrs. Verden’s animation and indulgence were remarkable. Usually she was curt and undemonstrative. On occasions like these, however, when she was reminded of the ideal relations between mother and daughter, she played the part of the affectionate parent, much to the general distress.
Helena lit a candle and went to her bedroom. She quickly packed her dress-basket. As she stood before the mirror to put on her hat her eyes, gazing heavily, met her heavy eyes in the mirror. She glanced away swiftly as if she had been burned.
“How stupid I look!” she said to herself. “And Siegmund, how is he, I wonder?”
She wondered how Siegmund had passed the day, what had happened to him, how he felt, how he looked. She thought of him protectively.
Having strapped her basket, she carried it downstairs. Her mother was ready, with a white lace scarf round her neck. After a short time Louisa came in. She dropped her basket in the passage, and then sank into a chair.
“I don’t want to go, Nell,” she said, after a few moments of silence.
“Why, how is that?” asked Helena, not surprised, but condescending, as to a child.
“Oh, I don’t know; I’m tired,” said the other petulantly.
“Of course you are. What do you expect, after a day like this?” said Helena.
“And rushing about packing,” exclaimed Mrs. Verden, still in an exaggerated manner, this time scolding playfully.
