He turned away, and, looking from Helena landwards, he said, smiling
peculiarly: 'It reminds me of Traviata--an "_Addio_" at every verse-end.' She smiled with her mouth in acknowledgement of his facetious irony; it
jarred on her. He was pricked again by her supercilious reserve.
'_Addi-i-i-i-o, Addi-i-i-o_!' he whistled between his teeth, hissing out
the Italian's passion-notes in a way that made Helena clench her fists.
'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.