Helen could see nothing but a sky which was colourless and unclouded, and she wished she could be like that—vague, immaterial, without form. Perhaps to reach that state was happiness; it might be negation, but it would be peace and she had a young, desperate wish to die and escape the alternations of joy and pain. "And yet this is nothing," she said with foresight, and she stood up. "I'm going home."
"No!" Zebedee exclaimed in the middle of one of Miriam's sentences.
"I must. Notya's all alone. Good-night."
He would not say the word, and he walked beside her. "But I'm your guest," he reminded her.
"I know. But you see, she's lonely."
"And I've been lonely all my life."
She caught her breath. "Have you?" Her hands moved against her skirt and she looked uneasily about her. "Have you?" She was pulled two ways, and with a feeling of escape, she found an answer for him. "But you are you. You're not like her. You're strong. You can manage without any one."
"I've had to."
"Oh," she moaned, "don't make me feel unhappy about going."
"I wouldn't have you unhappy about anything."