Helen moved suddenly, sharply, as if some shock of electricity had currented through her. Then she spoke, and her voice was strange. “Blind—blind—blind!” It seemed as if she said it unconsciously. The three men watched her intensely, each moved and apprehensive in a different way, and from a different cause. She spoke again in the same queer, mechanical manner, but this time her voice was louder, clearer, more vibrant. “Blind—blind—blind!” To Hugh and to Latham the one word repeated again and again conveyed nothing, but suddenly Stephen Pryde remembered where he had heard it last, and he shuddered. She spoke on—“As if he were an echo of the morning—‘Blind—blind—blind’!”
“Helen!” Hugh cried, alarmed for her.
“What is it?” Latham said to her insistently.
Stephen went to her quickly. “It’s nothing,” he said sharply. “Nothing—only the parting with Hugh. It’s been a great strain on her.” He turned to Hugh. “You had better go now, quickly.”
“No, no!” she said sharply, but looking at neither of them.
“Helen!” Hugh pled—distracted.
She heard him, and ran to him, brushing by Stephen.
“My dear,” she began, and faltered.
He put his arms about her. “There—there—you’re all right.”
The voice she loved best recalled her. “Of course I am,” she said brightly.