'This time next week, Helena!' he said.

She suddenly went heavy, and stretched across to clasp his hand as it
lay upon the table.

'I shall be calling to you from Cornwall,' she said.

He did not reply. So often she did not take his meaning, but left him
alone with his sense of tragedy. She had no idea how his life was
wrenched from its roots, and when he tried to tell her, she balked him,
leaving him inwardly quite lonely.

'There is _no_ next week,' she declared, with great cheerfulness. 'There
is only the present.'

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