Helen pulls away too, to look at his face, and now they've lost their rhythm, they've broken the line, and she stumbles, her heel caught in some hard-faced shopgirl's lacy hem. "I do beg your pardon," Anderson is saying in all directions, but Helen makes blindly for the booth. By the time she finds the right table he's at her side, begging her to finish the dance. Instead she gathers her cape and bag with shaking hands.
Only when they're well away from the platform, past the lavender bower and geranium beds, does Helen say a word. "It was a joke."
"I know that," he insists.
"Then why did you flinch?"
"I did no such thing."
"Don't take me for some green girl." Helen shakes off his arm as they take a path through the trees. "I've not the least intention of running away from my husband." She watches Anderson's face for the least flicker of grief, finds none. "I don't intend to make any claim on your protection," she growls, "for all the passion you've professed."
"Oh my darling," he groans.
"You needn't fear for the loss of your bachelor freedoms."
"Now that's too much." Anderson seizes her by the elbows, pinning her to the spot. It's dim here in the dark wood; the sounds of the pleasure gardens are hushed. "My only fear is for you, Helen, as you should know. It's because I treasure you that I've never once asked you to come away with me."
Helen looks away, licking her lips: tastes dye in the balm.
"Be sensible," says Anderson. "What could I offer you that could make up for such a ... catastrophe?"
He means the question rhetorically, but there's one obvious answer. She considers, for the first time, the image of Anderson as a husband. Would he still wear that lazy, boyish smile? Would there be anything left of the man who once wooed her with his eyes across a crowd?
"All you'd lose—and the disgrace of it, besides—"
"Now you're being cruel," she says, very low.
"This snatched love is all we have," he says into her ear, "but by God, it's sweet. And to think that many die without a taste of it!"
All very stirring; Helen's mouth twists. She shivers. "It must be late. I ought to go home. What time is it?"
"Not very late," says Anderson. He tugs her by the hand, leads her step by step away from the path, into the darkest part of the wood where the aromatic trees grow close together.
She knows what he's up to. Men are so predictable: they can only think of one way to end a quarrel. "Take me home."
"I will, I promise. Just a little further, won't you, to show you've forgiven me?"
The cool part of her brain thinks, Never mind your offended feelings, Helen; this is the best chance you'll have in weeks. She's still frowning, but her feet follow him into the lush black vegetation, one step at a time.
***
Helen lets herself in with her key at ten past eleven. She steps quietly through the darkened hall. She won't rouse her maid, even; she can undress herself when she must.
There's a light burning on the landing. As she tiptoes past the girls' door it suddenly opens. She prepares to shush them back to bed, but it's her husband.
Helen produces a marionette's smile. "You're still dressed."
His face is haggard. "Didn't you get my telegram?"
"Of course," she says automatically. Whatever does he mean? It was she who sent one, from the Cremorne. Did Harry shoot off a reply to the house on Taviton Street? A civil Give my respects to the Faithfulls? Or a sullen Very well? But neither would have needed an answer, so why is he asking whether she received it? Helen's always been a good bluffer; when she can be bothered to play cards, she usually wins. "I know I'm late, but I thought it might offend the reverend and his wife if I dashed off before dessert."
His lower lip has a raw patch, she notices now; it's dark with blood. "You're extraordinary. Not so much as a word in response, all these hours. Not a single word!"
Helen's stomach is a snake tightening round itself. "I'm awfully sorry—"
"She got worse after I sent for you," he tells her. "She was saying your name."
She looks away, so he won't read the shock in her eyes. She, which she? An accident? A sudden illness? And the worst of it is Helen must pretend she already knows all the facts. "Yes, the poor