The Lost Girl

  CHAPTER IX

  ALVINA BECOMES ALLAYE

  Alvina wept when the Natchas had gone. She loved them so much, shewanted to be with them. Even Ciccio she regarded as only one of theNatchas. She looked forward to his coming as to a visit from thetroupe.

  How dull the theatre was without them! She was tired of theEndeavour. She wished it did not exist. The rehearsal on the Mondaymorning bored her terribly. Her father was nervous and irritable.The previous week had tried him sorely. He had worked himself into astate of nervous apprehension such as nothing would have justified,unless perhaps, if the wooden walls of the Endeavour had burnt tothe ground, with James inside victimized like another Samson. He haddeveloped a nervous horror of all artistes. He did not feel safe forone single moment whilst he depended on a single one of them.

  "We shall have to convert into all pictures," he said in a nervousfever to Mr. May. "Don't make any more engagements after the end ofnext month."

  "Really!" said Mr. May. "Really! Have you quite decided?"

  "Yes quite! Yes quite!" James fluttered. "I have written about a newmachine, and the supply of films from Chanticlers."

  "Really!" said Mr. May. "Oh well then, in that case--" But he wasfilled with dismay and chagrin.

  "Of cauce," he said later to Alvina, "I can't _possibly_ stop on ifwe are nothing but a picture show!" And he arched his blanched anddismal eyelids with ghastly finality.

  "Why?" cried Alvina.

  "Oh--why!" He was rather ironic. "Well, it's not my line at _all_.I'm not a _film-operator_!" And he put his head on one side with agrimace of contempt and superiority.

  "But you are, as well," said Alvina.

  "Yes, _as well_. But not _only_! You _may_ wash the dishes in thescullery. But you're not only the _char_, are you?"

  "But is it the same?" cried Alvina.

  "Of cauce!" cried Mr. May. "Of _cauce_ it's the same."

  Alvina laughed, a little heartlessly, into his pallid, strickeneyes.

  "But what will you do?" she asked.

  "I shall have to look for something else," said the injured butdauntless little man. "There's nothing _else_, is there?"

  "Wouldn't you stay on?" she asked.

  "I wouldn't think of it. I wouldn't think of it." He turtled like aninjured pigeon.

  "Well," she said, looking laconically into his face: "It's betweenyou and father--"

  "Of _cauce_!" he said. "Naturally! Where else--!" But his tone was alittle spiteful, as if he had rested his last hopes on Alvina.

  Alvina went away. She mentioned the coming change to Miss Pinnegar.

  "Well," said Miss Pinnegar, judicious but aloof, "it's a move in theright direction. But I doubt if it'll do any good."

  "Do you?" said Alvina. "Why?"

  "I don't believe in the place, and I never did," declared MissPinnegar. "I don't believe any good will come of it."

  "But why?" persisted Alvina. "What makes you feel so sure about it?"

  "I don't know. But that's how I feel. And I have from the first. Itwas wrong from the first. It was wrong to begin it."

  "But why?" insisted Alvina, laughing.

  "Your father had no business to be led into it. He'd no business totouch this show business. It isn't like him. It doesn't belong tohim. He's gone against his own nature and his own life."

  "Oh but," said Alvina, "father was a showman even in the shop. Healways was. Mother said he was like a showman in a booth."

  Miss Pinnegar was taken aback.

  "Well!" she said sharply. "If _that's_ what you've seen inhim!"--there was a pause. "And in that case," she continued tartly,"I think some of the showman has come out in his daughter! orshow-woman!--which doesn't improve it, to my idea."

  "Why is it any worse?" said Alvina. "I enjoy it--and so doesfather."

  "No," cried Miss Pinnegar. "There you're wrong! There you make amistake. It's all against his better nature."

  "Really!" said Alvina, in surprise. "What a new idea! But which isfather's better nature?"

  "You may not know it," said Miss Pinnegar coldly, "and if so, I cannever tell you. But that doesn't alter it." She lapsed into deadsilence for a moment. Then suddenly she broke out, vicious and cold:"He'll go on till he's killed himself, and _then_ he'll know."

  The little adverb _then_ came whistling across the space like abullet. It made Alvina pause. Was her father going to die? Shereflected. Well, all men must die.

  She forgot the question in others that occupied her. First, couldshe bear it, when the Endeavour was turned into another cheap andnasty film-shop? The strange figures of the artistes passing underher observation had really entertained her, week by week. Some weeksthey had bored her, some weeks she had detested them, but there wasalways a chance in the coming week. Think of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras!

  She thought too much of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. She knew it. And shetried to force her mind to the contemplation of the new state ofthings, when she banged at the piano to a set of dithering andboring pictures. There would be her father, herself, and Mr. May--ora new operator, a new manager. The new manager!--she thought of himfor a moment--and thought of the mechanical factory-faced personswho _managed_ Wright's and the Woodhouse Empire.

  But her mind fell away from this barren study. She was obsessed bythe Natcha-Kee-Tawaras. They seemed to have fascinated her. Which ofthem it was, or what it was that had cast the spell over her, shedid not know. But she was as if hypnotized. She longed to be withthem. Her soul gravitated towards them all the time.

  Monday passed, and Ciccio did not come: Tuesday passed: andWednesday. In her soul she was sceptical of their keeping theirpromise--either Madame or Ciccio. Why should they keep theirpromise? She knew what these nomadic artistes were. And her soul wasstubborn within her.

  On Wednesday night there was another sensation at the Endeavour. Mr.May found James Houghton fainting in the box-office after theperformance had begun. What to do? He could not interrupt Alvina,nor the performance. He sent the chocolate-and-orange boy across tothe Pear Tree for brandy.

  James revived. "I'm all right," he said, in a brittle fashion. "I'mall right. Don't bother." So he sat with his head on his hand in thebox-office, and Mr. May had to leave him to operate the film.

  When the interval arrived, Mr. May hurried to the box-office, anarrow hole that James could just sit in, and there he found theinvalid in the same posture, semi-conscious. He gave him morebrandy.

  "I'm all right, I tell you," said James, his eyes flaring. "Leave mealone." But he looked anything but all right.

  Mr. May hurried for Alvina. When the daughter entered the ticketplace, her father was again in a state of torpor.

  "Father," she said, shaking his shoulder gently. "What's thematter."

  He murmured something, but was incoherent. She looked at his face.It was grey and blank.

  "We shall have to get him home," she said. "We shall have to get acab."

  "Give him a little brandy," said Mr. May.

  The boy was sent for the cab, James swallowed a spoonful of brandy.He came to himself irritably.

  "What? What," he said. "I won't have all this fuss. Go on with theperformance, there's no need to bother about me." His eye was wild.

  "You must go home, father," said Alvina.

  "Leave me alone! Will you leave me alone! Hectored by women all mylife--hectored by women--first one, then another. I won't standit--I won't stand it--" He looked at Alvina with a look of frenzy ashe lapsed again, fell with his head on his hands on histicket-board. Alvina looked at Mr. May.

  "We must get him home," she said. She covered him up with a coat,and sat by him. The performance went on without music. At last thecab came. James, unconscious, was driven up to Woodhouse. He had tobe carried indoors. Alvina hurried ahead to make a light in the darkpassage.

  "Father's ill!" she announced to Miss Pinnegar.

  "Didn't I say so!" said Miss Pinnegar, starting from her chair.

  The two women went out to meet the cab-man, who had James in hisarms
.

  "Can you manage?" cried Alvina, showing a light.

  "He doesn't weigh much," said the man.

  "Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!" went Miss Pinnegar's tongue, in a rapidtut-tut of distress. "What have I said, now," she exclaimed. "Whathave I said all along?"

  James was laid on the sofa. His eyes were half-shut. They made himdrink brandy, the boy was sent for the doctor, Alvina's bed waswarmed. The sick man was got to bed. And then started another vigil.Alvina sat up in the sick room. James started and muttered, but didnot regain consciousness. Dawn came, and he was the same. Pneumoniaand pleurisy and a touch of meningitis. Alvina drank her tea, took alittle breakfast, and went to bed at about nine o'clock in themorning, leaving James in charge of Miss Pinnegar. Time was allderanged.

  Miss Pinnegar was a nervous nurse. She sat in horror andapprehension, her eyebrows raised, starting and looking at James interror whenever he made a noise. She hurried to him and did what shecould. But one would have said she was repulsed, she found her taskunconsciously repugnant.

  During the course of the morning Mrs. Rollings came up and said thatthe Italian from last week had come, and could he speak to MissHoughton.

  "Tell him she's resting, and Mr. Houghton is seriously ill," saidMiss Pinnegar sharply.

  When Alvina came downstairs at about four in the afternoon she founda package: a comb of carved bone, and a message from Madame: "ToMiss Houghton, with kindest greetings and most sincere thanks fromKishwegin."

  The comb with its carved, beast-faced serpent was her portion.Alvina asked if there had been any other message. None.

  Mr. May came in, and stayed for a dismal half-hour. Then Alvina wentback to her nursing. The patient was no better, still unconscious.Miss Pinnegar came down, red eyed and sullen looking. The conditionof James gave little room for hope.

  In the early morning he died. Alvina called Mrs. Rollings, and theycomposed the body. It was still only five o'clock, and not light.Alvina went to lie down in her father's little, rather chillychamber at the end of the corridor. She tried to sleep, but couldnot. At half-past seven she arose, and started the business of thenew day. The doctor came--she went to the registrar--and so on.

  Mr. May came. It was decided to keep open the theatre. He would findsome one else for the piano, some one else to issue the tickets.

  In the afternoon arrived Frederick Houghton, James's cousin andnearest relative. He was a middle-aged, blond, florid, church-goingdraper from Knarborough, well-to-do and very _bourgeois_. He triedto talk to Alvina in a fatherly fashion, or a friendly, or a helpfulfashion. But Alvina could not listen to him. He got on her nerves.

  Hearing the gate bang, she rose and hurried to the window. She wasin the drawing-room with her cousin, to give the interview itsproper air of solemnity. She saw Ciccio rearing his yellow bicycleagainst the wall, and going with his head forward along the narrow,dark way of the back yard, to the scullery door.

  "Excuse me a minute," she said to her cousin, who looked upirritably as she left the room.

  She was just in time to open the door as Ciccio tapped. She stood onthe doorstep above him. He looked up, with a faint smile, from underhis black lashes.

  "How nice of you to come," she said. But her face was blanched andtired, without expression. Only her large eyes looked blue in theirtiredness, as she glanced down at Ciccio. He seemed to her far away.

  "Madame asks how is Mr. Houghton," he said.

  "Father! He died this morning," she said quietly.

  "He died!" exclaimed the Italian, a flash of fear and dismay goingover his face.

  "Yes--this morning." She had neither tears nor emotion, but justlooked down on him abstractedly, from her height on the kitchenstep. He dropped his eyes and looked at his feet. Then he lifted hiseyes again, and looked at her. She looked back at him, as fromacross a distance. So they watched each other, as strangers across awide, abstract distance.

  He turned and looked down the dark yard, towards the gate where hecould just see the pale grey tire of his bicycle, and the yellowmud-guard. He seemed to be reflecting. If he went now, he went forever. Involuntarily he turned and lifted his face again towards Alvina,as if studying her curiously. She remained there on the doorstep,neutral, blanched, with wide, still, neutral eyes. She did not seem tosee him. He studied her with alert, yellow-dusky, inscrutable eyes,until she met his look. And then he gave the faintest gesture with hishead, as of summons towards him. Her soul started, and died in her. Andagain he gave the slight, almost imperceptible jerk of the head,backwards and sideways, as if summoning her towards him. His face toowas closed and expressionless. But in his eyes, which kept hers, therewas a dark flicker of ascendancy. He was going to triumph over her. Sheknew it. And her soul sank as if it sank out of her body. It sank awayout of her body, left her there powerless, soulless.

  And yet as he turned, with his head stretched forward, to move away:as he glanced slightly over his shoulder: she stepped down from thestep, down to his level, to follow him. He went ducking along thedark yard, nearly to the gate. Near the gate, near his bicycle, wasa corner made by a shed. Here he turned, lingeringly, to her, andshe lingered in front of him.

  Her eyes were wide and neutral and submissive, with a new, awfulsubmission as if she had lost her soul. So she looked up at him,like a victim. There was a faint smile in his eyes. He stretchedforward over her.

  "You love me? Yes?--Yes?" he said, in a voice that seemed like apalpable contact on her.

  "Yes," she whispered involuntarily, soulless, like a victim. He puthis arm round her, subtly, and lifted her.

  "Yes," he re-echoed, almost mocking in his triumph. "Yes. Yes!" Andsmiling, he kissed her, delicately, with a certain finesse ofknowledge. She moaned in spirit, in his arms, felt herself dead,dead. And he kissed her with a finesse, a passionate finesse whichseemed like coals of fire on her head.

  They heard footsteps. Miss Pinnegar was coming to look for her.Ciccio set her down, looked long into her eyes, inscrutably,smiling, and said:

  "I come tomorrow."

  With which he ducked and ran out of the yard, picking up his bicyclelike a feather, and, taking no notice of Miss Pinnegar, letting theyard-door bang to behind him.

  "Alvina!" said Miss Pinnegar.

  But Alvina did not answer. She turned, slipped past, ran indoors andupstairs to the little bare bedroom she had made her own. She lockedthe door and kneeled down on the floor, bowing down her head to herknees in a paroxysm on the floor. In a paroxysm--because she lovedhim. She doubled herself up in a paroxysm on her knees on thefloor--because she loved him. It was far more like pain, like agony,than like joy. She swayed herself to and fro in a paroxysm ofunbearable sensation, because she loved him.

  Miss Pinnegar came and knocked at the door.

  "Alvina! Alvina! Oh, you are there! Whatever are you doing? Aren'tyou coming down to speak to your cousin?"

  "Soon," said Alvina.

  And taking a pillow from the bed, she crushed it against herself andswayed herself unconsciously, in her orgasm of unbearable feeling.Right in her bowels she felt it--the terrible, unbearable feeling.How could she bear it.

  She crouched over until she became still. A moment of stillnessseemed to cover her like sleep: an eternity of sleep in that onesecond. Then she roused and got up. She went to the mirror, still,evanescent, and tidied her hair, smoothed her face. She was sostill, so remote, she felt that nothing, nothing could ever touchher.

  And so she went downstairs, to that horrible cousin of her father's.She seemed so intangible, remote and virginal, that her cousin andMiss Pinnegar both failed to make anything of her. She answeredtheir questions simply, but did not talk. They talked to each other.And at last the cousin went away, with a profound dislike of MissAlvina.

  She did not notice. She was only glad he was gone. And she wentabout for the rest of the day elusive and vague. She slept deeplythat night, without dreams.

  The next day was Saturday. It came with a great storm of wind andrain and hail: a fury. Alvina looked
out in dismay. She knew Cicciowould not be able to come--he could not cycle, and it was impossibleto get by train and return the same day. She was almost relieved.She was relieved by the intermission of fate, she was thankful forthe day of neutrality.

  In the early afternoon came a telegram: Coming both tomorrow morningdeepest sympathy Madame. Tomorrow was Sunday: and the funeral was inthe afternoon. Alvina felt a burning inside her, thinking of Ciccio.She winced--and yet she wanted him to come. Terribly she wanted himto come.

  She showed the telegram to Miss Pinnegar.

  "Good gracious!" said the weary Miss Pinnegar. "Fancy those people.And I warrant they'll want to be at the funeral. As if he wasanything to _them_--"

  "I think it's very nice of her," said Alvina.

  "Oh well," said Miss Pinnegar. "If you think so. I don't fancy hewould have wanted such people following, myself. And what does shemean by _both_. Who's the other?" Miss Pinnegar looked sharply atAlvina.

  "Ciccio," said Alvina.

  "The Italian! Why goodness me! What's _he_ coming for? I can't makeyou out, Alvina. Is that his name, Chicho? I never heard such aname. Doesn't sound like a name at all to me. There won't be roomfor them in the cabs."

  "We'll order another."

  "More expense. I never knew such impertinent people--"

  But Alvina did not hear her. On the next morning she dressed herselfcarefully in her new dress. It was black voile. Carefully she didher hair. Ciccio and Madame were coming. The thought of Ciccio madeher shudder. She hung about, waiting. Luckily none of the funeralguests would arrive till after one o'clock. Alvina sat listless,musing, by the fire in the drawing-room. She left everything now toMiss Pinnegar and Mrs. Rollings. Miss Pinnegar, red-eyed andyellow-skinned, was irritable beyond words.

  It was nearly mid-day when Alvina heard the gate. She hurried toopen the front door. Madame was in her little black hat and herblack spotted veil, Ciccio in a black overcoat was closing the yarddoor behind her.

  "Oh, my dear girl!" Madame cried, trotting forward with outstretchedblack-kid hands, one of which held an umbrella: "I am so shocked--Iam so shocked to hear of your poor father. Am I to believe it?--am Ireally? No, I can't."

  She lifted her veil, kissed Alvina, and dabbed her eyes. Ciccio cameup the steps. He took off his hat to Alvina, smiled slightly as hepassed her. He looked rather pale, constrained. She closed the doorand ushered them into the drawing-room.

  Madame looked round like a bird, examining the room and thefurniture. She was evidently a little impressed. But all the timeshe was uttering her condolences.

  "Tell me, poor girl, how it happened?"

  "There isn't much to tell," said Alvina, and she gave the briefaccount of James's illness and death.

  "Worn out! Worn out!" Madame said, nodding slowly up and down. Herblack veil, pushed up, sagged over her brows like a mourning band."You cannot afford to waste the stamina. And will you keep on thetheatre--with Mr. May--?"

  Ciccio was sitting looking towards the fire. His presence madeAlvina tremble. She noticed how the fine black hair of his headshowed no parting at all--it just grew like a close cap, and waspushed aside at the forehead. Sometimes he looked at her, as Madametalked, and again looked at her, and looked away.

  At last Madame came to a halt. There was a long pause.

  "You will stay to the funeral?" said Alvina.

  "Oh my dear, we shall be too much--"

  "No," said Alvina. "I have arranged for you--"

  "There! You think of everything. But I will come, not Ciccio. Hewill not trouble you."

  Ciccio looked up at Alvina.

  "I should like him to come," said Alvina simply. But a deep flushbegan to mount her face. She did not know where it came from, shefelt so cold. And she wanted to cry.

  Madame watched her closely.

  "Siamo di accordo," came the voice of Ciccio.

  Alvina and Madame both looked at him. He sat constrained, with hisface averted, his eyes dropped, but smiling.

  Madame looked closely at Alvina.

  "Is it true what he says?" she asked.

  "I don't understand him," said Alvina. "I don't understand what hesaid."

  "That you have agreed with him--"

  Madame and Ciccio both watched Alvina as she sat in her new blackdress. Her eyes involuntarily turned to his.

  "I don't know," she said vaguely. "Have I--?" and she looked at him.

  Madame kept silence for some moments. Then she said gravely:

  "Well!--yes!--well!" She looked from one to another. "Well, there isa lot to consider. But if you have decided--"

  Neither of them answered. Madame suddenly rose and went to Alvina.She kissed her on either cheek.

  "I shall protect you," she said.

  Then she returned to her seat.

  "What have you said to Miss Houghton?" she said suddenly to Ciccio,tackling him direct, and speaking coldly.

  He looked at Madame with a faint derisive smile. Then he turned toAlvina. She bent her head and blushed.

  "Speak then," said Madame, "you have a reason." She seemedmistrustful of him.

  But he turned aside his face, and refused to speak, sitting as if hewere unaware of Madame's presence.

  "Oh well," said Madame. "I shall be there, Signorino."

  She spoke with a half-playful threat. Ciccio curled his lip.

  "You do not know him yet," she said, turning to Alvina.

  "I know that," said Alvina, offended. Then she added: "Wouldn't youlike to take off your hat?"

  "If you truly wish me to stay," said Madame.

  "Yes, please do. And will you hang your coat in the hall?" she saidto Ciccio.

  "Oh!" said Madame roughly. "He will not stay to eat. He will go outto somewhere."

  Alvina looked at him.

  "Would you rather?" she said.

  He looked at her with sardonic yellow eyes.

  "If you want," he said, the awkward, derisive smile curling his lipsand showing his teeth.

  She had a moment of sheer panic. Was he just stupid and bestial? Thethought went clean through her. His yellow eyes watched hersardonically. It was the clean modelling of his dark, other-worldface that decided her--for it sent the deep spasm across her.

  "I'd like you to stay," she said.

  A smile of triumph went over his face. Madame watched him stonily asshe stood beside her chair, one hand lightly balanced on her hip.Alvina was reminded of Kishwegin. But even in Madame's stonymistrust there was an element of attraction towards him. He hadtaken his cigarette case from his pocket.

  "On ne fume pas dans le salon," said Madame brutally.

  "Will you put your coat in the passage?--and do smoke if you wish,"said Alvina.

  He rose to his feet and took off his overcoat. His face wasobstinate and mocking. He was rather floridly dressed, though inblack, and wore boots of black patent leather with tan uppers.Handsome he was--but undeniably in bad taste. The silver ring wasstill on his finger--and his close, fine, unparted hair went badlywith smart English clothes. He looked common--Alvina confessed it.And her heart sank. But what was she to do? He evidently was nothappy. Obstinacy made him stick out the situation.

  Alvina and Madame went upstairs. Madame wanted to see the deadJames. She looked at his frail, handsome, ethereal face, and crossedherself as she wept.

  "Un bel homme, cependant," she whispered. "Mort en un jour. C'esttrop fort, voyez!" And she sniggered with fear and sobs.

  They went down to Alvina's bare room. Madame glanced round, as shedid in every room she entered.

  "This was father's bedroom," said Alvina. "The other was mine. Hewouldn't have it anything but like this--bare."

  "Nature of a monk, a hermit," whispered Madame. "Who would havethought it! Ah, the men, the men!"

  And she unpinned her hat and patted her hair before the smallmirror, into which she had to peep to see herself. Alvina stoodwaiting.

  "And now--" whispered Madame, suddenly turning: "What about thisCiccio, hein?" It was ridiculous tha
t she would not raise her voiceabove a whisper, upstairs there. But so it was.

  She scrutinized Alvina with her eyes of bright black glass. Alvinalooked back at her, but did not know what to say.

  "What about him, hein? Will you marry him? Why will you?"

  "I suppose because I like him," said Alvina, flushing.

  Madame made a little grimace.

  "Oh yes!" she whispered, with a contemptuous mouth. "Ohyes!--because you like him! But you know nothing _of_ him--nothing.How can you like him, not knowing him? He may be a real badcharacter. How would you like him then?"

  "He isn't, is he?" said Alvina.

  "I don't know. I don't know. He may be. Even I, I don't knowhim--no, though he has been with me for three years. What is he? Heis a man of the people, a boatman, a labourer, an artist's model. Hesticks to nothing--"

  "How old is he?" asked Alvina.

  "He is twenty-five--a boy only. And you? You are older."

  "Thirty," confessed Alvina.

  "Thirty! Well now--so much difference! How can you trust him? Howcan you? Why does he want to marry you--why?"

  "I don't know--" said Alvina.

  "No, and I don't know. But I know something of these Italian men,who are labourers in every country, just labourers and under-menalways, always down, down, down--" And Madame pressed her spreadpalms downwards. "And so--when they have a chance to come up--" sheraised her hand with a spring--"they are very conceited, and theytake their chance. He will want to rise, by you, and you will godown, with him. That is how it is. I have seen it before--yes--morethan one time--"

  "But," said Alvina, laughing ruefully. "He can't rise much becauseof me, can he?"

  "How not? How not? In the first place, you are English, and hethinks to rise by that. Then you are not of the lower class, you areof the higher class, the class of the masters, such as employ Ciccioand men like him. How will he not rise in the world by you? Yes, hewill rise very much. Or he will draw you down, down--Yes, one oranother. And then he thinks that now you have money--now your fatheris dead--" here Madame glanced apprehensively at the closeddoor--"and they all like money, yes, very much, all Italians--"

  "Do they?" said Alvina, scared. "I'm sure there won't _be_ anymoney. I'm sure father is in debt."

  "What? You think? Do you? Really? Oh poor Miss Houghton! Well--andwill you tell Ciccio that? Eh? Hein?"

  "Yes--certainly--if it matters," said poor Alvina.

  "Of course it matters. Of course it matters very much. It matters tohim. Because he will not have much. He saves, saves, saves, as theyall do, to go back to Italy and buy a piece of land. And if he hasyou, it will cost him much more, he cannot continue withNatcha-Kee-Tawara. All will be much more difficult--"

  "Oh, I will tell him in time," said Alvina, pale at the lips.

  "You will tell him! Yes. That is better. And then you will see. Buthe is obstinate--as a mule. And if he will still have you, then youmust think. Can you live in England as the wife of a labouring man,a dirty Eyetalian, as they all say? It is serious. It is notpleasant for you, who have not known it. I also have not known it.But I have seen--" Alvina watched with wide, troubled eyes, whileMadame darted looks, as from bright, deep black glass.

  "Yes," said Alvina. "I should hate being a labourer's wife in anasty little house in a street--"

  "In a house?" cried Madame. "It would not be in a house. They livemany together in one house. It would be two rooms, or even one room,in another house with many people not quite clean, you see--"

  Alvina shook her head.

  "I couldn't stand that," she said finally.

  "No!" Madame nodded approval. "No! you could not. They live in a badway, the Italians. They do not know the English home--never. Theydon't like it. Nor do they know the Swiss clean and proper house.No. They don't understand. They run into their holes to sleep or toshelter, and that is all."

  "The same in Italy?" said Alvina.

  "Even more--because there it is sunny very often--"

  "And you don't need a house," said Alvina. "I should like that."

  "Yes, it is nice--but you don't know the life. And you would bealone with people like animals. And if you go to Italy he will beatyou--he will beat you--"

  "If I let him," said Alvina.

  "But you can't help it, away there from everybody. Nobody will helpyou. If you are a wife in Italy, nobody will help you. You are hisproperty, when you marry by Italian law. It is not like England.There is no divorce in Italy. And if he beats you, you arehelpless--"

  "But why should he beat me?" said Alvina. "Why should he want to?"

  "They do. They are so jealous. And then they go into theirungovernable tempers, horrible tempers--"

  "Only when they are provoked," said Alvina, thinking of Max.

  "Yes, but you will not know what provokes him. Who can _say_ when hewill be provoked? And then he beats you--"

  There seemed to be a gathering triumph in Madame's bright blackeyes. Alvina looked at her, and turned to the door.

  "At any rate I know now," she said, in rather a flat voice.

  "And it is _true_. It is all of it true," whispered Madamevindictively. Alvina wanted to run from her.

  "I _must_ go to the kitchen," she said. "Shall we go down?"

  Alvina did not go into the drawing-room with Madame. She was toomuch upset, and she had almost a horror of seeing Ciccio at thatmoment.

  Miss Pinnegar, her face stained carmine by the fire, was helpingMrs. Rollings with the dinner.

  "Are they both staying, or only one?" she said tartly.

  "Both," said Alvina, busying herself with the gravy, to hide herdistress and confusion.

  "The man as well," said Miss Pinnegar. "What does the woman want tobring _him_ for? I'm sure I don't know what your father would say--acommon show-fellow, _looks_ what he is--and staying to dinner."

  Miss Pinnegar was thoroughly out of temper as she tried thepotatoes. Alvina set the table. Then she went to the drawing-room.

  "Will you come to dinner?" she said to her two guests.

  Ciccio rose, threw his cigarette into the fire, and looked round.Outside was a faint, watery sunshine: but at least it was out ofdoors. He felt himself imprisoned and out of his element. He had anirresistible impulse to go.

  When he got into the hall he laid his hand on his hat. The stupid,constrained smile was on his face.

  "I'll go now," he said.

  "We have set the table for you," said Alvina.

  "Stop now, since you have stopped for so long," said Madame, dartingher black looks at him.

  But he hurried on his coat, looking stupid. Madame lifted hereyebrows disdainfully.

  "This is polite behaviour!" she said sarcastically.

  Alvina stood at a loss.

  "You return to the funeral?" said Madame coldly.

  He shook his head.

  "When you are ready to go," he said.

  "At four o'clock," said Madame, "when the funeral has come home.Then we shall be in time for the train."

  He nodded, smiled stupidly, opened the door, and went.

  "This is just like him, to be so--so--" Madame could not expressherself as she walked down to the kitchen.

  "Miss Pinnegar, this is Madame," said Alvina.

  "How do you do?" said Miss Pinnegar, a little distant andcondescending. Madame eyed her keenly.

  "Where is the man? I don't know his name," said Miss Pinnegar.

  "He wouldn't stay," said Alvina. "What _is_ his name, Madame?"

  "Marasca--Francesco. Francesco Marasca--Neapolitan."

  "Marasca!" echoed Alvina.

  "It has a bad sound--a sound of a bad augury, bad sign," saidMadame. "Ma-ra-sca!" She shook her head at the taste of thesyllables.

  "Why do you think so?" said Alvina. "Do you think there is a meaningin sounds? goodness and badness?"

  "Yes," said Madame. "Certainly. Some sounds are good, they are forlife, for creating, and some sounds are bad, they are fordestroying. Ma-ra-sca!--that is bad, like swearing.
"

  "But what sort of badness? What does it do?" said Alvina.

  "What does it do? It sends life down--down--instead of lifting itup."

  "Why should things always go up? Why should life always go up?" saidAlvina.

  "I don't know," said Madame, cutting her meat quickly. There was apause.

  "And what about other names," interrupted Miss Pinnegar, a littlelofty. "What about Houghton, for example?"

  Madame put down her fork, but kept her knife in her hand. She lookedacross the room, not at Miss Pinnegar.

  "Houghton--! Huff-ton!" she said. "When it is said, it has a sound_against_: that is, against the neighbour, against humanity. Butwhen it is written _Hough-ton!_ then it is different, it is _for_."

  "It is always pronounced _Huff-ton_," said Miss Pinnegar.

  "By us," said Alvina.

  "We ought to know," said Miss Pinnegar.

  Madame turned to look at the unhappy, elderly woman.

  "You are a relative of the family?" she said.

  "No, not a relative. But I've been here many years," said MissPinnegar.

  "Oh, yes!" said Madame. Miss Pinnegar was frightfully affronted. Themeal, with the three women at table, passed painfully.

  Miss Pinnegar rose to go upstairs and weep. She felt very forlorn.Alvina rose to wipe the dishes, hastily, because the funeral guestswould all be coming. Madame went into the drawing-room to smoke hersly cigarette.

  Mr. May was the first to turn up for the lugubrious affair: verytight and tailored, but a little extinguished, all in black. Henever wore black, and was very unhappy in it, being almost morbidlysensitive to the impression the colour made on him. He was set toentertain Madame.

  She did not pretend distress, but sat black-eyed and watchful, verymuch her business self.

  "What about the theatre?--will it go on?" she asked.

  "Well I don't know. I don't know Miss Houghton's intentions," saidMr. May. He was a little stilted today.

  "It's hers?" said Madame.

  "Why, as far as I understand--"

  "And if she wants to sell out--?"

  Mr. May spread his hands, and looked dismal, but distant.

  "You should form a company, and carry on--" said Madame.

  Mr. May looked even more distant, drawing himself up in an oddfashion, so that he looked as if he were trussed. But Madame'sshrewd black eyes and busy mind did not let him off.

  "Buy Miss Houghton out--" said Madame shrewdly.

  "Of cauce," said Mr. May. "Miss Houghton herself must decide."

  "Oh sure--! You--are you married?"

  "Yes."

  "Your wife here?"

  "My wife is in London."

  "And children--?"

  "A daughter."

  Madame slowly nodded her head up and down, as if she put thousandsof two-and-two's together.

  "You think there will be much to come to Miss Houghton?" she said.

  "Do you mean property? I really can't say. I haven't enquired."

  "No, but you have a good idea, eh?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't.

  "No! Well! It won't be much, then?"

  "Really, I don't know. I should say, not a _large_ fortune--!"

  "No--eh?" Madame kept him fixed with her black eyes. "Do you thinkthe other one will get anything?"

  "The _other one_--?" queried Mr. May, with an uprising cadence.Madame nodded slightly towards the kitchen.

  "The old one--the Miss--Miss Pin--Pinny--what you call her."

  "Miss Pinnegar! The manageress of the work-girls? Really, I don'tknow at all--" Mr. May was most freezing.

  "Ha--ha! Ha--ha!" mused Madame quietly. Then she asked: "Whichwork-girls do you say?"

  And she listened astutely to Mr. May's forced account of thework-room upstairs, extorting all the details she desired to gather.Then there was a pause. Madame glanced round the room.

  "Nice house!" she said. "Is it their own?"

  "So I _believe_--"

  Again Madame nodded sagely. "Debts perhaps--eh? Mortgage--" and shelooked slyly sardonic.

  "Really!" said Mr. May, bouncing to his feet. "Do you mind if I goto speak to Mrs. Rollings--"

  "Oh no--go along," said Madame, and Mr. May skipped out in a temper.