“About nine?”
“Very well, and I leave at ten. Very well. Then au revoir till the morning. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Alvina. Her colour was rather flushed.
She walked up with Mr. May, and hardly noticed he was there. After supper, when James Houghton had gone up to count his pennies, Alvina said to Miss Pinnegar:
“Don’t you think father looks rather seedy, Miss Pinnegar?”
“I’ve been thinking so a long time,” said Miss Pinnegar tartly.
“What do you think he ought to do?”
“He’s killing himself down there, in all weathers and freezing in that box-office, and then the bad atmosphere. He’s killing himself, that’s all.”
“What can we do?”
“Nothing so long as there’s that place down there. Nothing at all.”
Alvina thought so too. So she went to bed.
She was up in time, and watching the clock. It was a grey morning, but not raining. At five minutes to nine, she hurried off to Mrs. Rollings. In the back yard the bicycles were out, glittering and muddy according to their owners. Ciccio was crouching mending a tire, crouching balanced on his toes, near the earth. He turned like a quick-eared animal glancing up as she approached, but did not rise.
“Are you getting ready to go?” she said, looking down at him. He screwed his head round to her unwillingly, upside down, his chin tilted up at her. She did not know him thus inverted. Her eyes rested on his face, puzzled. His chin seemed so large, aggressive. He was a little bit repellent and brutal, inverted. Yet she continued:
“Would you help me to carry back the things we brought for Madame?”
He rose to his feet, but did not look at her. He was wearing broken cycling shoes. He stood looking at his bicycle tube.
“Not just yet,” she said. “I want to say goodbye to Madame. Will you come in half an hour?”
“Yes, I will come,” he said, still watching his bicycle tube, which sprawled nakedly on the floor. The forward drop of his head was curiously beautiful to her, the straight, powerful nape of the neck, the delicate shape of the back of the head, the black hair. The way the neck sprang from the strong, loose shoulders was beautiful. There was something mindless but intent about the forward reach of his head. His face seemed colourless, neutral-tinted and expressionless.
She went indoors. The young men were moving about making preparations.
“Come upstairs, Miss Houghton!” called Madame’s voice from above. Alvina mounted, to find Madame packing.
“It is an uneasy moment, when we are busy to move,” said Madame, looking up at Alvina as if she were a stranger.
“I’m afraid I’m in the way. But I won’t stay a minute.”
“Oh, it is all right. Here are the things you brought—” Madame indicated a little pile—“and thank you very much, very much. I feel you saved my life. And now let me give you one little token of my gratitude. It is not much, because we are not millionaires in the Natcha-Kee-Tawara. Just a little remembrance of our troublesome visit to Woodhouse.”
She presented Alvina with a pair of exquisite bead moccasins, woven in a weird, lovely pattern, with soft deerskin soles and sides.
“They belong to Kishwégin, so it is Kishwégin who gives them to you, because she is grateful to you for saving her life, or at least from a long illness.”
“Oh—but I don’t want to take them—” said Alvina.
“You don’t like them? Why?”
“I think they’re lovely, lovely! But I don’t want to take them from you—”
“If I give them, you do not take them from me. You receive them. Hé?” And Madame pressed back the slippers, opening her plump jewelled hands in a gesture of finality.
“But I don’t like to take these,” said Alvina. “I feel they belong to Natcha-Kee-Tawara. And I don’t want to rob Natcha-Kee-Tawara, do I? Do take them back.”
“No, I have given them. You cannot rob Natcha-Kee-Tawara in taking a pair of shoes—impossible!”
“And I’m sure they are much too small for me.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Madame. “It is that! Try.”
“I know they are,” said Alvina, laughing confusedly.
She sat down and took off her own shoe. The moccasin was a little too short—just a little. But it was charming on the foot, charming.
“Yes,” said Madame. “It is too short. Very well. I must find you something else.”
“Please don’t,” said Alvina. “Please don’t find me anything. I don’t want anything. Please!”
“What?” said Madame, eyeing her closely. “You don’t want? Why? You don’t want anything from Natcha-Kee-Tawara, or from Kishwégin? Hé? From which?”
“Don’t give me anything, please,” said Alvina.
“All right! All right then. I won’t. I won’t give you anything. I can’t give you anything you want from Natcha-Kee-Tawara.”
And Madame busied herself again with the packing.
“I’m awfully sorry you are going,” said Alvina.
“Sorry? Why? Yes, so am I sorry we shan’t see you any more. Yes, so I am. But perhaps we shall see you another time—hé? I shall send you a postcard. Perhaps I shall send one of the young men on his bicycle, to bring you something which I shall buy for you. Yes? Shall I?”
“Oh! I should be awfully glad—but don’t buy—” Alvina checked herself in time. “Don’t buy anything. Send me a little thing from Natcha-Kee-Tawara. I love the slippers—”
“But they are too small,” said Madame, who had been watching her with black eyes that read every motive. Madame too had her avaricious side, and was glad to get back the slippers. “Very well—very well, I will do that. I will send you some small thing from Natcha-Kee-Tawara, and one of the young men shall bring it. Perhaps Ciccio? Hé?”
“Thank you so much,” said Alvina, holding out her hand. “Goodbye. I’m so sorry you’re going.”
“Well—well! We are not going so very far. Not so very far. Perhaps we shall see each other another day. It may be. Goodbye!”
Madame took Alvina’s hand, and smiled at her winsomely all at once, kindly, from her
