red and fortified. 'Well,' he
said, 'since you approve, I suppose it's settled. I shan't ask her at
once, you know. She might think it was because of what I'd guessed. I'll
lead up to it for a day or two. And, Helen, you might, if you've a
chance, put in a good word for me.'

'I will, if I've a chance,' said Helen.

Gerald, as if aware that he had taken up really too much of her time,
now moved towards the door. But he went slowly, and at the door he
paused. He turned to her smiling. 'And you give me your blessing?' he
asked.

He was most endearing when he smiled so. It was a smile like a child's,
that caressed and cajoled, and that saw through its own cajolery and
pleaded, with a little wistfulness, that there was more than could show
itself, behind. Helen knew what was behind--the sense of strangeness,
the affection and the touch of fear. She had never refused that smile
anything; she seemed to refuse it nothing now, as she answered with a
maternal acquiescence, 'I give you my blessing, dear Gerald.'

CHAPTER XV.

It was still early. When he had left her, Helen looked at her watch;
only half-past ten. She stood thinking. Should she go out, as usual,
take her place in a long chair under the limes, close her eyes and
pretend to sleep? No, she could not do that. Should she sit down in her
room with Dante and a dictionary? No, that she would not do. Should she
walk far away into the woods and lie upon the ground and weep? That
would be a singularly foolish plan, and at lunch everybody would see
that she had been crying. Yet it was impossible to remain here, to
remain still, and thinking. She must move quickly, and make her body
tired. She went to her room, pinned on her hat, drew on her gloves, and,
choosing a stick as she went through the hall, passed from the grounds
and through the meadow walk to a long road, climbing and winding, whose
walls, at either side, seemed to hold back the billows of the woodland.
The day was hot and dusty. The sky was like a blue stone, the green
monotonous, the road glared white. Helen, with the superficial
fretfulness of an agony controlled, said to herself that nothing more
like a bad water-colour landscape could be imagined; there were the
unskilful blots of heavy foliage, the sleekly painted sky, and the sunny
road was like the whiteness of the paper, picked out, for shadows, in
niggling cobalt. A stupid, bland, heartless day.

She walked along this road for several miles