tethered amid the five days by the sea, pulling forwards as far as the morrow’s meeting with Siegmund, but reaching no further.
Friday was an intolerable day of silence, broken by little tender advances and playful, affectionate sallies on the part of the mother, all of which were rapidly repulsed. The father said nothing, and avoided his daughter with his eyes. In his humble reserve there was a dignity which made his disapproval far more difficult to bear than the repeated flagrant questionings of the mother’s eyes. But the day wore on. Helena pretended to read, and sat thinking. She played her violin a little, mechanically. She went out into the town, and wandered about.
At last the night fell.
“Well,” said Helena to her mother, “I suppose I’d better pack.”
“Haven’t you done it?” cried Mrs. Verden, exaggerating her surprise. “You’ll never have it done. I’d better help you. What time does the train go?”
Helena smiled.
“Ten minutes to ten.”
Her mother glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight. There was ample time for everything.
“Nevertheless, you’d better look sharp,” Mrs. Verden said.
Helena turned away, weary of this exaggeration.
“I’ll come with you to the station,” suggested Mrs. Verden. “I’ll see the last of you. We shan’t see much of you just now.”
Helena turned round in surprise.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” she said, fearing to make her disapproval too evident.
