“Good!” cried Armstrong. “I am glad that there is one sensible person in the party!”
He tried to slip his arm around Helen’s waist, but she gently avoided him.
“Come,” she urged, “we shall be late if we don’t get ready now. We have too little time as it is.”
After dinner Uncle Peabody and Inez announced their intention of devoting the evening to letter-writing, so Helen and Jack found themselves alone together in the garden. Helen wrapped her shawl closely about her, wondering at the chill which came over her when she realized that she was alone with her husband and that the opportunity for which she had waited was at hand. She was silent, trying to decide how best to open the conversation. Her mind was made up at last. If others had begun to notice the estrangement, it was time that Jack knew of it, and from her. All doubt, all uncertainty had vanished.
She looked long at her husband in the dim starlight. He was so near her, yet how far away he really was! Even he did not realize how far. She could see the lines of his face lighted by his cigar as he silently smoked it, his eyes fixed upon the lights of the city beyond. How strong it was, Helen thought, how strong he was compared with her own weak self! She wondered what his thoughts were centred upon—whether on his masterpiece or upon Inez! Upon Inez! That brought her back to the task before her.
It was a difficult task; she realized that. There could be no immediate separation, for that would mean an interruption to the work. She must stay in Florence until the manuscript was completed or Inez could not remain. No, there must not be any break between Jack and herself for the present, or his mind would be taken from his book and another failure added to the great one in which she felt herself to be the most concerned. Yet she must make him understand that she was not dull to the signs which she and the others could but read. To continue to act as if ignorant of them would be the worst of all. She must remain his wife until his supreme effort was accomplished, then the living lie could be ended and the new and separate life begun.
Armstrong interrupted her reverie before it had quite come to an end.
“You are not looking like yourself lately, Helen,” he said, abruptly. “I meant to have spoken of it before.”
Helen started at the suddenness of his remark. “Not looking like myself?” she repeated, mechanically. “How do you mean?”
“You look tired and worn out.”