“I’ll come with you to the station,” suggested Mrs Verden. “I’ll see the last of you. We shan’t see much of you just now.” Helena turned round in surprise. “Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” she said, fearing to make her disapproval too evident. “Yes—I will—I’ll see you off.” Mrs Verden’s animation and indulgence were remarkable. Usually she was curt and undemonstrative. On occasions like these, however, when she was reminded of the ideal relations between mother and daughter, she played the part of the affectionate parent, much to the general distress. Helena lit a candle and went to her bedroom. She quickly packed her dress-basket. As she stood before the mirror to put on her hat, her eyes, gazing heavily, met her heavy eyes in the mirror. She glanced away swiftly as if she had been burned. “How stupid I look!” she said to herself. “And Siegmund, how is he, I wonder?” She wondered how Siegmund had passed the day, what had happened to him, how he felt, how he looked. She thought of him protectively. Having strapped her basket, she carried it downstairs. Her mother was ready, with a white lace scarf round her neck. After a short time Louisa came in. She dropped her basket in the passage, and then sank into a chair. “I don’t want to go, Nell,” she said, after a few moments of silence. “Why, how is that?” asked Helena, not surprised, but condescending, as to a child. “Oh, I don’t know; I’m tired,” said the other petulantly. “Of course you are. What do you expect, after a day like this?” said Helena. “And rushing about packing,” exclaimed Mrs Verden, still in an exaggerated manner, this time scolding playfully. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to go, dear,” repeated Louisa dejectedly. “Well, it is time we set out,” replied Helena, rising. “Will you carry the basket or the violin, Mater?” Louisa rose, and with a forlorn expression took up her light luggage. The west opposite the door was smouldering with sunset. Darkness is only smoke that hangs suffocatingly over the low red heat of the sunken day. Such was Helena’s longed-for night. The tramcar was crowded. In one corner Olive, the third friend, rose excitedly to greet them. Helena sat mute, while the car swung through the yellow, stale lights of a third-rate street of shops. She heard Olive remarking on her sunburned face and arms; she became aware of the renewed inflammation in her blistered arms; she heard her own curious voice answering. Everything was in a maze. To the beat of the car, while the yellow blur of the shops passed over her eyes, she repeated: “Two hundred and forty miles—two hundred and forty miles.” XXV Siegmund passed the afternoon in a sort of stupor. At tea-time Beatrice, who had until then kept herself in restraint, gave way to an outburst of angry hysteria. “When does your engagement at the Comedy Theatre commence?” she had asked him coldly. He knew she was wondering about money. “Tomorrow—if ever,” he had answered.