“No, we shall not be long. Mr. MacNair is very evidently tired out.”
“Yes—yes. It is very tiring, London.”
When the door was closed, Helena stood a moment undecided, looking at Siegmund. He was lying in his armchair in a dispirited way, and looking in the fire. As she gazed at him with troubled eyes, he happened to glance to her, with the same dark, curiously searching, disappointed eyes.
“Shall I read to you?” she asked bitterly.
“If you will,” he replied.
He sounded so indifferent, she could scarcely refrain from crying. She went and stood in front of him, looking down on him heavily.
“What is it, dear?” she said.
“You,” he replied, smiling with a little grimace.
“Why me?”
He smiled at her ironically, then closed his eyes. She slid into his arms with a little moan. He took her on his knee, where she curled up like a heavy white cat. She let him caress her with his mouth, and did not move, but lay there curled up and quiet and luxuriously warm.
He kissed her hair, which was beautifully fragrant of itself, and time after time drew between his lips one long, keen thread, as if he would ravel out with his mouth her vigorous confusion of hair. His tenderness of love was like a soft flame lapping her voluptuously.
After a while they heard the old lady go upstairs. Helena went very still, and seemed to contract. Siegmund himself hesitated in his love-making. All was very quiet. They could hear a faint breathing of the sea. Presently the cat, which had been sleeping in a chair, rose and went to the door.
