The fourth day it rained: simply rained all day long, and was cold, dismal, disheartening beyond words. There she sat, stranded in the dismalness, and knew no way out. She went to bed at nine o’clock, having decided in a jerk to go to London and find work in the war-hospitals at once: not to leave off until she had found it.
But in the night she dreamed that Alexander, her first fiancé, was with her on the quay of some harbour, and was reproaching her bitterly, even reviling her, for having come too late, so that they had missed their ship. They were there to catch the boat—and she, for dilatoriness, was an hour late, and she could see the broad stern of the steamer not far off. Just an hour late. She showed Alexander her watch—exactly ten o’clock, instead of nine. And he was more angry than ever, because her watch was slow. He pointed to the harbour clock—it was ten minutes past ten.
When she woke up she was thinking of Alexander. It was such a long time since she had thought of him. She wondered if he had a right to be angry with her.
The day was still grey, with sweepy rain-clouds on the sea—gruesome, objectionable. It was a prolongation of yesterday. Well, despair was no good, and being miserable was no good either. She got no satisfaction out of either mood. The only thing to do was to act: seize hold of life and wring its neck.
She took the timetable that hung in the hall: the timetable, that magic carpet of today. When in doubt, move. This was the maxim. Move. Where to?
Another click of a resolution. She would wire to Ciccio and meet him—where? York—Leeds—Halifax—? She looked up the places in the timetable, and decided on Leeds. She wrote out a telegram, that she would be at Leeds that evening. Would he get it in time? Chance it.
She hurried off and sent the telegram. Then she took a little luggage, told the people of her house she would be back next day, and set off. She did not like whirling in the direction of Lancaster. But no matter.
She waited a long time for the train from the north to come in. The first person she saw was Tommy. He waved to her and jumped from the moving train.
“I say!” he said. “So glad to see you! Ciccio is with me. Effie insisted on my coming to see you.”
There was Ciccio climbing down with the bag. A sort of servant! This was too much for her.
“So you came with your valet?” she said, as Ciccio stood with the bag.
“Not a bit,” said Tommy, laying his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We’re the best of friends. I don’t carry bags because my heart is rather groggy. I say, nurse, excuse me, but I like you better in uniform. Black doesn’t suit you. You don’t mind—”
“Yes, I do. But I’ve only got black clothes, except uniforms.”
“Well look here now—! You’re not going on anywhere tonight, are you?”
“It is too late.”
“Well now, let’s turn into the hotel and have a talk. I’m acting under Effie’s orders, as you may gather—”
At the hotel Tommy gave her a letter from his wife: to the tune of—don’t marry this Italian, you’ll put yourself in a wretched hole, and one wants to avoid getting into holes. I know—concluded Effie, on a sinister note.
Tommy sang another tune. Ciccio was a lovely chap, a rare chap, a treat. He, Tommy, could quite understand any woman’s wanting to marry him—didn’t agree a bit with Effie. But marriage, you know, was so final. And then with this war on: you never knew how things might turn out: a foreigner and all that. And then—you won’t mind what I say—? We won’t talk about class and that rot. If the man’s good enough, he’s good enough by himself. But is he your intellectual equal, nurse? After all, it’s a big point. You don’t want to marry a man you can’t talk to. Ciccio’s a treat to be with, because he’s so natural. But it isn’t a mental treat—
Alvina thought of Mrs. Tuke, who complained that Tommy talked music and pseudo-philosophy by the hour when he was wound up. She saw Effie’s long, outstretched arm of repudiation and weariness.
“Of course!”—another of Mrs. Tuke’s exclamations. “Why not be atavistic if you can be, and follow at a man’s heel just because he’s a man. Be like barbarous women, a slave.”
During all this, Ciccio stayed out of the room, as bidden. It was not till Alvina sat before her mirror that he opened her door softly, and entered.
“I come in,” he said, and he closed the door.
Alvina remained with her hairbrush suspended, watching him. He came to her, smiling softly, to take her in his arms. But she put the chair between them.
“Why did you bring Mr. Tuke?” she said.
He lifted his shoulders.
“I haven’t brought him,” he said, watching her.
“Why did you show him the telegram?”
“It was Mrs. Tuke took it.”
“Why did you give it her?”
“It was she who gave it me, in her room. She kept it in her room till I came and took it.”
“All right,” said Alvina. “Go back to the Tukes.” And she began again to brush her hair.
Ciccio watched her with narrowing eyes.
“What you mean?” he said. “I shan’t go, Allaye. You come with me.”
“Ha!” she sniffed scornfully. “I shall go where I like.”
But slowly he shook his head.
“You’ll come, Allaye,” he said. “You come with me, with Ciccio.”
She shuddered at the soft, plaintive entreaty.
“How can I go with you? How can I depend on you at all?”
Again he shook his head. His eyes had a curious yellow fire, beseeching, plaintive, with a demon quality of yearning compulsion.
“Yes, you come with me, Allaye. You come with me, to Italy. You don’t go to that other man. He is too old, not healthy. You come with me
