In the garden of tall rose trees and nasturtiums Helena was again
waiting. It was past nine o'clock, so she was growing impatient. To
herself, however, she professed a great interest in a little book of
verses she had bought in St Martin's Lane for twopence.

A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings,
As through the glade, dim in the dark, she flew....

So she read. She made a curious, pleased sound, and remarked to herself
that she thought these verses very fine. But she watched the road
for Siegmund.

And now she takes the scissors on her thumb ...
Oh then, no more unto my lattice come.

'H'm!' she said, 'I really don't know whether I like that or not.' Therefore she read the piece again before she looked down the road.

'He really is very late. It is absurd to think he may have got drowned;
but if he were washing about at the bottom of the sea, his hair loose on
the water!' Her heart stood still as she imagined this.

'But what nonsense! I like these verses _very_ much. I will read them as
I walk along the side path, where I shall hear the bees, and catch the
flutter of a butterfly among the words. That will be a very fitting way
to read this poet.' So she strolled to the gate, glancing up now and again. There, sure
enough, was Siegmund coming, the towel hanging over his shoulder, his
throat bare, and his face bright. She stood in the mottled shade.