They had entered the north downs, and were running through Dorking towards Leatherhead. Box Hill stood dark in the dusky sweetness of the night. Helena remembered that here she and Siegmund had come for their first walk together. She would like to come again. Presently she saw the quick stilettos of stars on the small, baffled river; they ran between high embankments. Siegmund recollected that these were covered with roses of Sharon—the large golden St John’s wort of finest silk. He looked, and could just distinguish the full-blown, delicate flowers, ignored by the stars. At last he had something to say to Helena: “Do you remember,” he asked, “the roses of Sharon all along here?” “I do,” replied Helena, glad he spoke so brightly. “Weren’t they pretty?” After a few moments of watching the bank, she said: “Do you know, I have never gathered one? I think I should like to; I should like to feel them, and they should have an orangy smell.” He smiled, without answering. She glanced up at him, smiling brightly. “But shall we come down here in the morning, and find some?” she asked. She put the question timidly. “Would you care to?” she added. Siegmund darkened and frowned. Here was the pain revived again. “No,” he said gently; “I think we had better not.” Almost for the first time he did not make apologetic explanation. Helena turned to the window, and remained, looking out at the spinning of the lights of the towns without speaking, until they were near Sutton. Then she rose and pinned on her hat, gathering her gloves and her basket. She was, in spite of herself, slightly angry. Being quite ready to leave the train, she sat down to wait for the station. Siegmund was aware that she was displeased, and again, for the first time, he said to himself, “Ah, well, it must be so.” She looked at him. He was sad, therefore she softened instantly. “At least,” she said doubtfully, “I shall see you at the station.” “At Waterloo?” he asked. “No, at Wimbledon,” she replied, in her metallic tone. “But—” he began. “It will be the best way for us,” she interrupted, in the calm tone of conviction. “Much better than crossing London from Victoria to Waterloo.” “Very well,” he replied. He looked up a train for her in his little time-table. “You will get in Wimbledon 10.5—leave 10.40—leave Waterloo 11.30,” he said. “Very good,” she answered. The brakes were grinding. They waited in a burning suspense for the train to stop.