ously, joy seemed to quiver in the iris. Helena appreciated him, feature by feature. She liked his clear forehead, with its thick black hair, and his full mouth, and his chin. She loved his hands, that were small, but strong and nervous, and very white. She liked his breast, that breathed so strong and quietly, and his arms, and his thighs, and his knees.
For him, Helena was a presence. She was ambushed, fused in an aura of his love. He only saw she was white, and strong, and full fruited, he only knew her blue eyes were rather awful to him.
Outside, the sea-mist was travelling thicker and thicker inland. Their lodging was not far from the bay. As they sat together at tea, Siegmund’s eyes dilated, and he looked frowning at Helena.
“What is it?” he asked, listening uneasily.
Helena looked up at him, from pouring out the tea. His little anxious look of distress amused her.
“The noise, you mean? Merely the fog-horn, dear—not Wotan’s wrath, nor Siegfried’s dragon….”
The fog was white at the window. They sat waiting. After a few seconds the sound came low, swelling, like the mooing of some great sea-animal, alone, the last of the monsters. The whole fog gave off the sound for a second or two, then it died down into an intense silence. Siegmund and Helena looked at each other. His eyes were full of trouble. To see a big, strong man anxious-eyed as a child because of a strange sound amused her. But he was tired.
“I assure you, it is only a fog-horn,” she laughed.
“Of course. But it is a depressing sort of sound.”
“Is it?” she said curiously. “Why? Well—yes—I think I can understand it’s being so to some people.
