“There is nothing fresh the matter at home,” he replied wearily. He was to be scourged with emotion again. “I swear it,” he added. “And I have not made up my mind. But I can’t think of life without you—and life must go on.”
“And I swear,” she said wrathfully, turning at bay, “that I won’t live a day after you.”
Siegmund dropped his head. The dead spring of his emotion swelled up scalding hot again. Then he said, almost inaudibly: “Ah, don’t speak to me like that, dear. It is late to be angry. When I have seen your train out to-night there is nothing left.”
Helena looked at him, dumb with dismay, stupid, angry.
They became aware of the porters shouting loudly that the Waterloo train was to leave from another platform.
“You’d better come,” said Siegmund, and they hurried down towards Louisa and Olive.
“We’ve got to change platforms,” cried Louisa, running forward and excitedly announcing the news.
“Yes,” replied Helena, pale and impassive.
Siegmund picked up the luggage.
“I say,” cried Olive, rushing to catch Helena and Louisa by the arm, “look—look—both of you—look at that hat!” A lady in front was wearing on her hat a wild and dishevelled array of peacock feathers. “It’s the sight of a lifetime. I wouldn’t have you miss it,” added Olive in hoarse sotto voce.
“Indeed not!” cried Helena, turning in wild exasperation to look. “Get a good view of it, Olive. Let’s have a good mental impression of it—one that will last.”
