At the same moment she rose and slipped across to him. Putting her arms round his neck, she stood holding his head to her bosom, pressing it close, with her hand among his hair. His nostrils and mouth were crushed against her breast. He smelled the silk of her dress and the faint, intoxicating odour of her person. With shut eyes he owned heavily to himself again that she was blind to him. But some other self urged with gladness, no matter how blind she was, so that she pressed his face upon her. She stroked and caressed his hair, tremblingly clasped his head against her breast, as if she would never release him; then she bent to kiss his forehead. He took her in his arms, and they were still for awhile. Now he wanted to blind himself with her, to blaze up all his past and future in a passion worth years of living. After tea they rested by the fire, while she told him all the delightful things she had found. She had a woman’s curious passion for details, a woman’s peculiar attachment to certain dear trifles. He listened, smiling, revived by her delight, and forgetful of himself. She soothed him like sunshine, and filled him with pleasure; but he hardly attended to her words. “Shall we go out, or are you too tired? No, you are tired—you are very tired,” said Helena. She stood by his chair, looking down on him tenderly. “No,” he replied, smiling brilliantly at her, and stretching his handsome limbs in relief—“no, not at all tired now.” Helena continued to look down on him in quiet, covering tenderness. But she quailed before the brilliant, questioning gaze of his eyes. “You must go to bed early tonight,” she said, turning aside her face, ruffling his soft black hair. He stretched slightly, stiffening his arms, and smiled without answering. It was a very keen pleasure to be thus alone with her and in her charge. He rose, bidding her wrap herself up against the fog. “You are sure you’re not too tired?” she reiterated. He laughed. Outside, the sea-mist was white and woolly. They went hand in hand. It was cold, so she thrust her hand with his into the pocket of his overcoat, while they walked together. “I like the mist,” he said, pressing her hand in his pocket. “I don’t dislike it,” she replied, shrinking nearer to him. “It puts us together by ourselves,” he said. She plodded alongside, bowing her head, not replying. He did not mind her silence. “It couldn’t have happened better for us than this mist,” he said. She laughed curiously, almost with a sound of tears. “Why?” she asked, half tenderly, half bitterly. “There is nothing else but you, and for you there is nothing else but me—look!” He stood still. They were on the downs, so that Helena found herself quite alone with the man in a world of mist. Suddenly she flung herself sobbing against his breast. He held her closely, tenderly, not knowing what it was all about, but happy and unafraid.