XXXI
In the same month of July, not yet a year after Siegmund’s death, Helena sat on the top of the tramcar with Cecil Byrne. She was dressed in blue linen, for the day had been hot. Byrne was holding up to her a yellow-backed copy of “Einsame Menschen,” and she was humming the air of the Russian folk-song printed on the front page, frowning, nodding with her head, and beating time with her hand to get the rhythm of the song. She turned suddenly to him, and shook her head, laughing.
“I can’t get it—it’s no use. I think it’s the swinging of the car prevents me getting the time,” she said.
“These little outside things always come a victory over you,” he laughed.
“Do they?” she replied, smiling, bending her head against the wind. It was six o’clock in the evening. The sky was quite overcast, after a dim, warm day. The tramcar was leaping along southwards. Out of the corners of his eyes Byrne watched the crisp morsels of hair shaken on her neck by the wind.
“Do you know,” she said, “it feels rather like rain.”
“Then,” said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on the pavement, “you certainly ought not to be out.”
“I ought not,” she said, “for I’m totally unprovided.”
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