In the same month of July, not yet a year after Siegmund's death, Helena
sat on the top of the tramcar with Cecil Byrne. She was dressed in blue
linen, for the day had been hot. Byrne was holding up to her a
yellow-backed copy of _Einsame Menschen_, and she was humming the air of
the Russian folk-song printed on the front page, frowning, nodding with
her head, and beating time with her hand to get the rhythm of the song.
She turned suddenly to him, and shook her head, laughing.
'I can't get it--it's no use. I think it's the swinging of the car
prevents me getting the time,' she said.
'These little outside things always come a victory over you,' he
laughed.
'Do they?' she replied, smiling, bending her head against the wind. It
was six o'clock in the evening. The sky was quite overcast, after a dim,
warm day. The tramcar was leaping along southwards. Out of the corners
of his eyes Byrne watched the crisp morsels of hair shaken on her neck
by the wind.
'Do you know,' she said, 'it feels rather like rain.' 'Then,' said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on
the pavement, 'you certainly ought not to be out.' 'I ought not,' she said, 'for I'm totally unprovided.' Neither, however, had the slightest intention of turning back.
Presently they descended from the car, and took a road leading uphill
off the highway. Trees hung over one side, whilst on the other side
stood a few villas with lawns upraised. Upon one of these lawns two
great sheep-dogs rushed and stood at the brink of the, grassy declivity,
at some height above the road, barking and urging boisterously. Helena
and Byrne stood still to watch them. One dog was grey, as is usual, the
other pale fawn. They raved extravagantly at the two pedestrians. Helena
laughed at them.
'They are--' she began, in her slow manner.
'Villa sheep-dogs baying us wolves,' he continued.
'No,' she said, 'they remind me of Fafner and Fasolt.' 'Fasolt? They _are_ like that. I wonder if they really dislike us.' 'It appears so,' she laughed.
'Dogs generally chum up to me,' he said.
Helena began suddenly to laugh. He looked at her inquiringly.
'I remember,' she said, still laughing, 'at Knockholt--you--a half-grown
lamb--a dog--in procession.' She marked the position of the three with
her finger.
'What an ass I must have looked!' he said.
'Sort of silent Pied Piper,' she laughed.
'Dogs do follow me like that, though,' he said.