mund 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?”
