“Surely it is E,” persisted Helena.
“Even F sharp,” he rejoined, humming the note.
She laughed, and told him to climb the chromatic scale.
“But you agree?” he said.
“I do not,” she replied.
The fog was cold. It seemed to rob them of their courage to talk.
“What is the note in Tristan?” Helena made an effort to ask.
“That is not the same,” he replied.
“No, dear, that is not the same,” she said in low, comforting tones. He quivered at the caress. She put her arms round him reached up her face yearningly for a kiss. He forgot they were standing in the public footpath, in daylight, till she drew hastily away. She heard footsteps down the fog.
As they climbed the path the mist grew thinner, till it was only a grey haze at the top. There they were on the turfy lip of the land. The sky was fairly clear overhead. Below them the sea was singing hoarsely to itself.