She smiled with her mouth in acknowledgment 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 to-night.”
“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. Sieg-
