XI
Sunday.
Terry looked better in the morning; I asked him if he had slept well, and he replied: "Oh, yes, I was so very tired after last night.... Last night! Doesn't it seem years away? And isn't it comfortable to be back here?"
"Yes," I agreed. "Mizzi has a genius for making things comfortable."
He seemed surprised at my mentioning her. "I suppose it is Mizzi," he said, after a pause, and seemed to ponder over the matter.
Not till breakfast was over did he mention the letters, and then only because I took the opportunity of handing them back to him. He seemed afraid that I might discuss them with him; he told me that he didn't want me ever to mention them; but that he hoped they had made me realize. What he hoped they had made me realize he didn't say, but I presumed he meant his own overwhelming guilt.... But he wouldn't discuss the matter further. The thing of immediate importance, he said, was the letter to Helen that he was going to write.
I seized the opportunity then of giving him a straight talk about his health. I told him frankly that he seemed to me to be on the verge of a serious breakdown, and rather to my surprise he didn't indignantly deny it. He even admitted that he had been working too hard and that he needed a holiday. "I'll take one," he said, "as soon as all this business is settled. I'll go to Salzburg or Ischl or somewhere—Mizzi will advise me...." He smiled his familiar half-smile and added: "You needn't worry—I shall be all right."
He didn't mention his work, and when I ventured a remark, he said: "Just now—for the time—I can't think of it. That's why I daresay you're right—I do need a rest.... But before I have it, I must earn it—I must undo, if I can, some of the harm I've done...."
Soon after that I left him to compose his letter to Helen. It was something, at any rate, that he had agreed to take a holiday, but Mizzi, when I told her, was less impressed. "He has promised scores of times," she said, "but always—at the last moment—there has been an excuse."
The morning dragged on, and then literally, as well as metaphorically, came the clouds. It was raining hard at mid-day, and when I went up to his room I found him with a blank writing-pad in front of him and weariness in his eyes. For two hours he had been trying to write, and not a word would come—not a word.