“I think, dear,” she said, “we ought to find the little path that escaped us last night.”
“We were lucky to miss it,” he answered. “You don’t get a walk like that twice in a lifetime, in spite of the old ladies.”
She glanced up at him with a winsome smile, glad to hear his words.
They set off, Siegmund bare-headed. He was dressed in flannels and a loose canvas shirt, but he looked what he was—a Londoner on holiday. He had the appearance, the diffident bearing, and the well-cut clothes of a gentleman. He had a slight stoop, a strong-shouldered stoop, and as he walked he looked unseeing in front of him.
Helena belonged to the unclassed. She was not ladylike, nor smart, nor assertive. One could not tell whether she were of independent means or a worker. One thing was obvious about her: she was evidently educated.
Rather short, of strong figure, she was much more noticeably a concentrée than was Siegmund. Unless definitely looking at something she always seemed coiled within herself.
She wore a white voile dress made with the waist just below her breasts, and the skirt dropping straight and clinging. On her head was a large, simple hat of burnt straw.
Through the open-worked sleeves of her dress she could feel the sun bite vigorously.
“I wish you had put on a hat, Siegmund,” she said.
“Why?” he laughed. “My hair is like a hood,” He ruffled it back with his hand. The sunlight glistened on his forehead.