“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.”