Feeling him abstract, withdrawn from her, Helena experienced the dread
of losing him. She was in his arms, but his spirit ignored her. That was
insufferable to her pride. Yet she dared not disturb him--she was
afraid. Bitterly she repented her of the giving way to her revulsion a
little space before. Why had she not smothered it and pretended? Why had
she, a woman, betrayed herself so flagrantly? Now perhaps she had lost
him for good. She was consumed with uneasiness.

At last she drew back from him, held him her mouth to kiss. As he
gently, sadly kissed her she pressed him to her bosom. She must get him
back, whatever else she lost. She put her hand tenderly on his brow.

'What are you thinking of?' she asked.

'I?' he replied. 'I really don't know. I suppose I was hardly thinking
anything.' She waited a while, clinging to him, then, finding some difficulty in
speech, she asked: 'Was I very cruel, dear?' It was so unusual to hear her grieved and filled with humility that he
drew her close into him.

'It was pretty bad, I suppose,' he replied. 'But I should think neither
of us could help it.' She gave a little sob, pressed her face into his chest, wishing she had
helped it. Then, with Madonna love, she clasped his head upon her
shoulder, covering her hands over his hair. Twice she kissed him softly
in the nape of the neck, with fond, reassuring kisses. All the while,
delicately, she fondled and soothed him, till he was child to
her Madonna.