Helena swiftly, with a movement of terror, faced him, looking into his eyes. But he was in the shadow, she could not see him. The flat sound of his voice, lacking resonance—the dead, expressionless tone—made her lose her presence of mind. She stared at him blankly.
“What do you mean? What has happened? Something has happened to you. What has happened at home? What are you going to do?” she said sharply. She palpitated with terror. For the first time she felt powerless. Siegmund was beyond her grasp. She was afraid of him. He had shaken away her hold over him.
“There is nothing fresh the matter at home,” he replied wearily. He was to be scourged with emotion again. “I swear it,” he added. “And I have not made up my mind. But I can’t think of life without you—and life must go on.”
“And I swear,” she said wrathfully, turning at bay, “that I won’t live a day after you.”
Siegmund dropped his head. The dead spring of his emotion swelled up scalding hot again. Then he said, almost inaudibly: “Ah, don’t speak to me like that, dear. It is late to be angry. When I have seen your train out tonight there is nothing left.”
Helena looked at him, dumb with dismay, stupid, angry.
They became aware of the porters shouting loudly that the Waterloo train was to leave from another platform.
“You’d better come,” said Siegmund, and they hurried down towards Louisa and Olive.
“We’ve got to change platforms,” cried Louisa, running forward and excitedly announcing the news.
“Yes,” replied Helena, pale and impassive.