She stood up beside him, shook herself, and tried to get a breath of air. She was dazzled blind by the sunshine. Siegmund lay in the bright light, with his eyes closed, never moving. His face was inflamed, but fixed like a mask. Helena waited, until the terror of the passing of the hour was too strong for her. She lifted his hand, which lay swollen with heat on the sand, and she tried gently to draw him. “We shall be too late,” she said in distress. He sighed and sat up, looking out over the water. Helena could not bear to see him look so vacant and expressionless. She put her arm round his neck, and pressed his head against her skirt. Siegmund knew he was making it unbearable for her. Pulling himself together, he bent his head from the sea, and said: “Why, what time is it?” He took out his watch, holding it in his hand. Helena still held his left hand, and had one arm round his neck. “I can’t see the figures,” he said. “Everything is dimmed, as if it were coming dark.” “Yes,” replied Helena, in that reedy, painful tone of hers. “My eyes were the same. It is the strong sunlight.” “I can’t,” he repeated, and he was rather surprised—“I can’t see the time. Can you?” She stooped down and looked. “It is half past one,” she said. Siegmund hated her voice as she spoke. There was still sufficient time to catch the train. He stood up, moved inside his clothing, saying: “I feel almost stunned by the heat. I can hardly see, and all my feeling in my body is dulled.” “Yes,” answered Helena, “I am afraid it will do you harm.” “At any rate,” he smiled as if sleepily, “I have had enough. If it’s too much—what _is_ too much?” They went unevenly over the sand, their eyes sun-dimmed. “We are going back—we are going back!” the heart of Helena seemed to run hot, beating these words. They climbed the cliff path toilsomely. Standing at the top, on the edge of the grass, they looked down the cliffs at the beach and over the sea. The strand was wide, forsaken by the sea, forlorn with rocks bleaching in the sun, and sand and seaweed breathing off their painful scent upon the heat. The sea crept smaller, farther away; the sky stood still. Siegmund and Helena looked hopelessly out on their beautiful, incandescent world. They looked hopelessly at each other, Siegmund’s mood was gentle and forbearing. He smiled faintly at Helena, then turned, and, lifting his hand to his mouth in a kiss for the beauty he had enjoyed, “_Addio_!” he said. He turned away, and, looking from Helena landwards, he said, smiling peculiarly: “It reminds me of Traviata—an ‘_Addio_’ at every verse-end.” She smiled with her mouth in acknowledgement of his facetious irony; it jarred on her. He was pricked again by her supercilious reserve. “_Addi-i-i-i-o, Addi-i-i-o_!” he whistled between his teeth, hissing out the Italian’s passion-notes in a way that made Helena clench her fists.