and let them drop. He took no notice, but, still with his arms on his knees, he stared into the fire.
In the golden glow of lamplight she set small bowls of white and lavender sweets-peas, and mignonette, upon the round table. He watched her moving, saw the stir of her white, sloping shoulders under the lace, and the hollow of her shoulders firm as marble, and the slight rise and fall of her loins as she walked. He felt as if his breast were scalded. It was a physical pain to him.
Supper was very quiet. Helena was sad and gentle; he had a peculiar, enigmatic look in his eyes, between suffering and mockery and love. He was quite intractable; he would not soften to her, but remained there aloof. He was tired, and the look of weariness and suffering was evident to her through his strangeness. In her heart she wept.
At last she tinkled the bell for supper to be cleared. Meanwhile, restlessly, she played fragments of Wagner on the piano.
“Will you want anything else?” asked the smiling old landlady.
“Nothing at all, thanks,” said Helena, with decision.
“Oh! Then I think I will go to bed when I’ve washed the dishes. You will put the lamp out, dear?”
“I am well used to a lamp,” smiled Helena. “We use them always at home.”
She had had a day before Siegmund’s coming, in which to win Mrs. Curtiss’ heart, and she had been successful. The old lady took the tray.
“Good-night, dear good-night, sir. I will leave you. You will not be long, dear?”
