“Will you have cocoa or lemonade?” she asked, coming to the point curtly. “Lemonade,” said Helena. Presently Mr Verden entered—a small, white-bearded man with a gentle voice. “Oh, so you are back, Nellie!” he said, in his quiet, reserved manner. “As you see, Pater,” she answered. “H’m!” he murmured, and he moved about at his accounts. Neither of her parents dared to question Helena. They moved about her on tiptoe, stealthily. Yet neither subserved her. Her father’s quiet “H’m!” her mother’s curt question, made her draw inwards like a snail which can never retreat far enough from condemning eyes. She made a careless pretence of eating. She was like a child which has done wrong, and will not be punished, but will be left with the humiliating smear of offence upon it. There was a quick, light palpitating of the knocker. Mrs Verden went to the door. “Has she come?” And there were hasty steps along the passage. Louisa entered. She flung herself upon Helena and kissed her. “How long have you been in?” she asked, in a voice trembling with affection. “Ten minutes,” replied Helena. “Why didn’t you send me the time of the train, so that I could come and meet you?” Louisa reproached her. “Why?” drawled Helena. Louisa looked at her friend without speaking. She was deeply hurt by this sarcasm. As soon as possible Helena went upstairs. Louisa stayed with her that night. On the next day they were going to Cornwall together for their usual midsummer holiday. They were to be accompanied by a third girl—a minor friend of Louisa, a slight acquaintance of Helena. During the night neither of the two friends slept much. Helena made confidences to Louisa, who brooded on these, on the romance and tragedy which enveloped the girl she loved so dearly. Meanwhile, Helena’s thoughts went round and round, 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 times 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.