How Cyril's heart smote him, as he gazed at those calm, stern features and mild blue eyes, with so much trust in their orbs.
He hastily shuffled the painting into his pocket, and with something between a groan and a sarcastic laugh, made a rapid retreat down the stair case.
Helen was waiting in the hall.
She looked a very different girl from the bright rosy faced Helen of a week ago.
Her cheeks were white and hollow save for one hectic spot and her great hazel eyes seemed too dark for her face. Her dark hair was limp and uncurled, and her lips were as ashy as her face. She looked a sad little picture, indeed, as she stood there in the hall, with her grey cloak loosly buttoned round her, and her new black crape hat contrasting queerly with her ghost-like countenance.
Cyril's heart of stone was quite touched as he saw her looking so vastly changed.
"Come Helen" he said carresingly as he patted her hair behind, "it feels like old times to be walking with you again."
"Perhaps it does to you" quoth Helen bitterly "but to me it is unbearable."
Cyril said nothing, but gently helped her down the steps. In an hours time they were at the station.
Helen sat on a seat to rest till the train came up, and Cyril went over to the bookstall, keeping close to a remarkably tall foreign looking gentleman who was laughing over Tit Bits.