“Worn out! Worn out!” Madame said, nodding slowly up and down. Her black veil, pushed up, sagged over her brows like a mourning band. “You cannot afford to waste the stamina. And will you keep on the theatre—with Mr. May—?”
Ciccio was sitting looking towards the fire. His presence made Alvina tremble. She noticed how the fine black hair of his head showed no parting at all—it just grew like a close cap, and was pushed aside at the forehead. Sometimes he looked at her, as Madame talked, 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. He will not trouble you.”
Ciccio looked up at Alvina.
“I should like him to come,” said Alvina simply. But a deep flush began to mount her face. She did not know where it came from, she felt 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 his face 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 he said.”
“That you have agreed with him—”
Madame and Ciccio both watched Alvina as she sat in her new black dress. 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 is a 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 to Alvina. She bent her head and blushed.
“Speak then,” said Madame, “you have a reason.” She seemed mistrustful of him.
But he turned aside his face, and refused to speak, sitting as if he were 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 you like 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 said to Ciccio.
“Oh!” said Madame roughly. “He will not stay to eat. He will go out to 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 lips and showing his teeth.
She had a moment of sheer panic. Was he just stupid and bestial? The thought went clean through her. His yellow eyes watched her sardonically. It was the clean modelling of his dark, otherworld face 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 as she stood beside her chair, one hand lightly balanced on her hip. Alvina was reminded of Kishwégin. But even in Madame’s stony mistrust there was an element of attraction towards him. He had taken 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 was obstinate and mocking. He was rather floridly dressed, though in black, and wore boots of black patent leather with tan uppers. Handsome he was—but undeniably in bad taste. The silver ring was still on his finger—and his close, fine, unparted hair went badly with smart English clothes. He looked common—Alvina confessed it. And her heart sank. But what was she to do? He evidently was not happy. Obstinacy made him stick out the situation.
Alvina and Madame went upstairs. Madame wanted to see the dead James. She looked at his frail, handsome, ethereal face, and crossed herself as she wept.
“Un bel homme, cependant,” she whispered. “Mort en un jour. C’est trop fort, voyez!” And she sniggered with fear and sobs.
They went down to Alvina’s bare room. Madame glanced round, as she did in every room she entered.
“This was father’s bedroom,” said Alvina. “The other was mine. He wouldn’t have it anything but like this—bare.”
“Nature of a monk, a hermit,” whispered Madame. “Who would have thought it! Ah, the men, the men!”
And she unpinned her hat and patted her hair before the small mirror, into which she had to peep to see herself. Alvina stood waiting.
“And now—” whispered Madame, suddenly turning: “What about this Ciccio, hein?” It was ridiculous that she would not raise her voice above a whisper, upstairs there. But so it was.
She scrutinized Alvina with her eyes of bright black glass. Alvina looked 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. “Oh yes!—because you like him! But you know nothing of him—nothing. How can you like him, not knowing him? He may be a real bad character. 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 know him—no, though he has been with me for three years. What is he? He is a man of
