“It is your turn now,” he repeated, smiling, and he turned away. He and Helena walked down the platform. “How did you find things at home?” he asked her. “Oh, as usual,” she replied indifferently. “And you?” “Just the same,” he answered. He thought for a moment or two, then added: “The children are happier without me.” “Oh, you mustn’t say that kind of thing protested Helena miserably. “It’s not true.” “It’s all right, dear,” he answered. “So long as they are happy, it’s all right.” After a pause he added: “But I feel pretty bad tonight.” Helena’s hand tightened on his arm. He had reached the end of the platform. There he stood, looking up the line which ran dark under a haze of lights. The high red signal-lamps hung aloft in a scarlet swarm; farther off, like spangles shaking downwards from a burst sky-rocket, was a tangle of brilliant red and green signal-lamps settling. A train with the warm flare on its thick column of smoke came thundering upon the lovers. Dazed, they felt the yellow bar of carriage-windows brush in vibration across their faces. The ground and the air rocked. Then Siegmund turned his head to watch the red and the green lights in the rear of the train swiftly dwindle on the darkness. Still watching the distance where the train had vanished, he said: “Dear, I want you to promise that, whatever happens to me, you will go on. Remember, dear, two wrongs don’t make a right.” Helena swiftly, with a movement of terror, faced him, looking into his eyes. But he was in the shadow, she could not see him. The flat sound of his voice, lacking resonance—the dead, expressionless tone—made her lose her presence of mind. She stared at him blankly. “What do you mean? What has happened? Something has happened to you. What has happened at home? What are you going to do?” she said sharply. She palpitated with terror. For the first time she felt powerless. Siegmund was beyond her grasp. She was afraid of him. He had shaken away her hold over him. “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 tonight 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.