“Selina will think we are lost,” I said. “Let us go and find Selina.”
“Not for the world,” she cried.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel sure of myself. I might tell Selina something which she must never know; I should be so sorry to frighten her. Let me stop here with you.”
I resumed my place at her side.
“Let me take your hand.”
I gave her my hand. What composing influence this simple act may, or may not, have exercised, it is impossible to say. She was quiet, she was silent. After an interval, I heard her breathe a long-drawn sigh of relief.
“I am afraid I have surprised you,” she said. “Helena brings the dreadful time back to me—” She stopped and shuddered.
“Don’t speak of Helena, my dear.”
“But I am afraid you will think—because I have said strange things—that I have been talking at random,” she insisted. “The doctor will say that, if you meet with him. He believes I am deluded by a dream. I tried to think so myself. It was of no use; I am quite sure he is wrong.”