The time passed quickly enough, but in a sort of way I was disappointed.
I had expected to see much more of Terry; I had had in mind all kinds of
excursions, including, if possible, a week-end trip along the Danube to
Buda-Pesth. But his Work--his almighty Work--stood in the way. Not, of
course, that either he or I was in the least bored. He was so simply and
obviously delighted to be with me that I was all the more enraged that
he couldn't manage to be with me oftener. But it was no use attempting
to persuade him; his Work was a jealous god.
Only once did he mention Helen. It was on the last evening before my
return to England, and we had strolled into the Burg-garten, where the
heavy dusk-smelling trees were like a belt of magic separating us from
the dazzling boulevards. There was a high moon overhead, and an
orchestra playing the overture to _Egmont_ in the open-air, and a crowd
of Viennese, of all ages and classes, listening in silent rapture. Many
of them followed the score from large folios, and if a careless
foreigner so much as whispered a word or struck a match, shocked eyes
stared at him and quelled him into silence. After the day's heat and
bustle the kiss of the muted violins seemed to stir the air into cool
waves and ripples; it was all delicious, enchanting and utterly unlike
anything that could possibly happen in Hyde Park.
After the final chord he asked me suddenly how Helen was. I thought I
had better not tell him of our quarrel, so I replied merely that I
believed she was all right, although I hadn't seen much of her lately.
And then, emboldened by his broaching of the subject, I asked him if he
had heard from her.