the water. The last person had passed in black silhouette between them and the sea.
He was thinking bitterly. She seemed to goad him deeper and deeper into life. He had a sense of despair, a preference of death. The German she read with him—she loved its loose and violent romance—came back to his mind: “Der Tod geht einem zur Seite, fast sichtbarlich, und jagt einen immer tiefer ins Leben.”
Well, the next place he would be hunted to, like a hare run down, was home. It seemed impossible the morrow would take him back to Beatrice.
“This time to-morrow night,” he said.
“Siegmund!” she implored.
“Why not?” he laughed.
“Don’t, dear,” she pleaded.
“All right, I won’t.”
Some large steamer crossing the mouth of the bay made the water clash a little as it broke in accentuated waves. A warm puff of air wandered in on them now and again.
“You won’t be tired when you go back?” Helena asked.
“Tired!” he echoed.
“You know how you were when you came,” she reminded him, in tones full of pity. He laughed.
“Oh, that is gone,” he said.
With a slow, mechanical rhythm she stroked his cheek.
“And will you be sad?” she said, hesitating.
“Sad!” he repeated.
“But will you be able to take the old life up, happier, when you go back?”
