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.”
As he walked home beside her there mingled with his other feelings resentment against her. Almost he hated her.