She wandered on and on, until suddenly she found herself in the grassy lane with only a wire fence bounding her from the open fields on either side, beyond which fields, on the left, she could see Siegmund’s house standing florid by the road, catching the western sunlight. Then she stopped, realizing where she had come. For some time she stood looking at the house. It was no use her going there; it was of no use her going anywhere; the whole wide world was opened, but in it she had no destination, and there was no direction for her to take. As if marooned in the world, she stood desolate, looking from the house of Siegmund over the fields and the hills. Siegmund was gone; why had he not taken her with him? The evening was drawing on; it was nearly half past seven when Helena looked at her watch, remembering Louisa, who would be waiting for her to return to Cornwall. “I must either go to her, or wire to her. She will be in a fever of suspense,” said Helena to herself, and straightway she hurried to catch a tramcar to return to the station. She arrived there at a quarter to eight; there was no train down to Tintagel that night. Therefore she wired the news: “Siegmund dead. No train tonight. Am going home.” This done, she took her ticket and sat down to wait. By the strength of her will everything she did was reasonable and accurate. But her mind was chaotic. “It was like a brick,” she reiterated, and that brutal simile was the only one she could find, months afterwards, to describe her condition. She felt as if something had crashed into her brain, stunning and maiming her. As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Her mother opened to her. “What, are you alone?” cried Mrs. Verden. “Yes. Louisa did not come up,” replied Helena, passing into the dining-room. As if by instinct she glanced on the mantelpiece to see if there was a letter. There was a newspaper cutting. She went forward and took it. It was from one of the London papers. “Inquest was held today upon the body of ——.” Helena read it, read it again, folded it up and put it in her purse. Her mother stood watching her, consumed with distress and anxiety. “How did you get to know?” she asked. “I went to Wimbledon and bought a local paper,” replied the daughter, in her muted, toneless voice. “Did you go to the house?” asked the mother sharply. “No,” replied Helena. “I was wondering whether to send you that paper,” said her mother hesitatingly. Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically, looking for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gently to help her. For some time Helena sat at table in the dining-room staring before her. Her parents moved restlessly in silence, trying not to irritate her by watching her, praying for something to change the fixity of her look. They acknowledged themselves helpless; like children, they felt powerless and forlorn, and were very quiet.