“I suppose,” she said, swallowing, and recovering her voice to check this discord—“I suppose we shall have a fairly easy journey—Thursday.” “I don’t know,” said Siegmund. “There will not be very many people,” she insisted. “I think,” he said, in a very quiet voice, “you’d better let me go by the South-Western from Portsmouth while you go on by the Brighton.” “But why?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “I don’t want to sit looking at you all the way,” he said. “But why should you?” she exclaimed. He laughed. “Indeed, no!” she said. “We shall go together.” “Very well,” he answered. They walked on in silence towards the village. As they drew near the little post office, he said: “I suppose I may as well wire them that I shall be home tonight.” “You haven’t sent them any word?” she asked. He laughed. They came to the open door of the little shop. He stood still, not entering. Helena wondered what he was thinking. “Shall I?” he asked, meaning, should he wire to Beatrice. His manner was rather peculiar. “Well, I should think so,” faltered Helena, turning away to look at the postcards in the window. Siegmund entered the shop. It was dark and cumbered with views, cheap china ornaments, and toys. He asked for a telegraph form. “My God!” he said to himself bitterly as he took the pencil. He could not sign the abbreviated name his wife used towards him. He scribbled his surname, as he would have done to a stranger. As he watched the amiable, stout woman counting up his words carefully, pointing with her finger, he felt sick with irony. “That’s right,” she said, picking up the sixpence and taking the form to the instrument. “What beautiful weather!” she continued. “It will be making you sorry to leave us.” “There goes my warrant,” thought Siegmund, watching the flimsy bit of paper under the post-mistress’s heavy hand. “Yes—it is too bad, isn’t it,” he replied, bowing and laughing to the woman. “It is, sir,” she answered pleasantly. “Good morning.” He came out of the shop still smiling, and when Helena turned from the postcards to look at him, the lines of laughter remained over his face like a mask. She glanced at his eyes for a sign; his facial expression told her nothing; his eyes were just as inscrutable, which made her falter with dismay. “What is he thinking of?” she asked herself. Her thoughts flashed back. “And why did he ask me so peculiarly whether he should wire them at home?” “Well,” said Siegmund, “are there any postcards?” “None that I care to take,” she replied. “Perhaps you would like one of these?” She pointed to some faded-looking cards which proved to be imaginary views of Alum Bay done in variegated sand. Siegmund smiled. “I wonder if they dribbled the sand on with a fine glass tube,” he said. “Or a brush,” said Helena. “She does not understand,” said Siegmund to himself. “And whatever I do I must not tell her. I should have thought she would understand.”