They sailed on past the chequered round towers. The sea opened, and they looked out to eastward into the sea-space. Siegmund wanted to flee. He yearned to escape down the open ways before him. Yet he knew he would be carried on to London. He watched the sea-ways closing up. The shore came round. The high old houses stood flat on the right hand. The shore swept round in a sickle, reaping them into the harbour. There the old _Victory_, gay with myriad pointed pennons, was harvested, saved for a trophy. “It is a dreadful thing,” thought Siegmund, “to remain as a trophy when there is nothing more to do.” He watched the landing-stages swooping nearer. There were the trains drawn up in readiness. At the other end of the train was London. He could scarcely bear to have Helena before him for another two hours. The suspense of that protracted farewell, while he sat opposite her in the beating train, would cost too much. He longed to be released from her. They had got their luggage, and were standing at the foot of the ladder, in the heat of the engines and the smell of hot oil, waiting for the crowd to pass on, so that they might ascend and step off the ship on to the mainland. “Won’t you let me go by the South-Western, and you by the Brighton?” asked Siegmund, hesitating, repeating the morning’s question. Helena looked at him, knitting her brows with misgiving and perplexity. “No,” she replied. “Let us go together.” Siegmund followed her up the iron ladder to the quay. There was no great crowd on the train. They easily found a second-class compartment without occupants. He swung the luggage on the rack and sat down, facing Helena. “Now,” said he to himself, “I wish I were alone.” He wanted to think and prepare himself. Helena, who was thinking actively, leaned forward to him to say: “Shall I not go down to Cornwall?” By her soothing willingness to do anything for him, Siegmund knew that she was dogging him closely. He could not bear to have his anxiety protracted. “But you have promised Louisa, have you not?” he replied. “Oh, well!” she said, in the peculiar slighting tone she had when she wished to convey the unimportance of affairs not touching him. “Then you must go,” he said. “But,” she began, with harsh petulance, “I do not want to go down to Cornwall with _Louisa and Olive_”—she accentuated the two names—“after _this_,” she added. “Then Louisa will have no holiday—and you have promised,” he said gravely. Helena looked at him. She saw he had decided that she should go.