But he hurried on his coat, looking stupid. Madame lifted her eyebrows 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 express herself as she walked down to the kitchen.
“Miss Pinnegar, this is Madame,” said Alvina.
“How do you do?” said Miss Pinnegar, a little distant and condescending. 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,” said Madame. “Ma‑rà‑sca!” She shook her head at the taste of the syllables.
“Why do you think so?” said Alvina. “Do you think there is a meaning in sounds? goodness and badness?”
“Yes,” said Madame. “Certainly. Some sounds are good, they are for life, for creating, and some sounds are bad, they are for destroying. Ma‑rà‑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 it up.”
“Why should things always go up? Why should life always go up?” said Alvina.
“I don’t know,” said Madame, cutting her meat quickly. There was a pause.
“And what about other names,” interrupted Miss Pinnegar, a little lofty. “What about Houghton, for example?”
Madame put down her fork, but kept her knife in her hand. She looked across 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. But when 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 Miss Pinnegar.
“Oh, yes!” said Madame. Miss Pinnegar was frightfully affronted. The meal, 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 guests would all be coming. Madame went into the drawing-room to smoke her sly cigarette.
Mr. May was the first to turn up for the lugubrious affair: very tight and tailored, but a little extinguished, all in black. He never wore black, and was very unhappy in it, being almost morbidly sensitive to the impression the colour made on him. He was set to entertain Madame.
She did not pretend distress, but sat black-eyed and watchful, very much 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,” said Mr. 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 odd fashion, so that he looked as if he were trussed. But Madame’s shrewd 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 thousands of 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 think the 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 workgirls? Really, I don’t know at all—” Mr. May was most freezing.
“Ha—ha! Ha—ha!” mused Madame quietly. Then she asked: “Which workgirls do you say?”
And she listened astutely to Mr. May’s forced account of the workroom 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 she looked slyly sardonic.
“Really!” said Mr. May, bouncing to his feet. “Do you mind if I go to speak to Mrs. Rollings—”
“Oh no—go along,” said Madame, and Mr. May skipped out in a temper.
Madame was left alone in her comfortable chair, studying details of the room and making accounts in her own mind, until the actual funeral guests began to arrive. And then she had the satisfaction of sizing them up. Several arrived with wreaths. The coffin had been carried down and laid in the small sitting-room—Mrs. Houghton’s sitting-room. It was covered with white wreaths and streamers of purple ribbon. There was a crush and a confusion.
And then at last the hearse and the cabs had arrived—the coffin was carried out—Alvina followed, on the arm of her father’s cousin, whom she disliked. Miss Pinnegar marshalled the other mourners. It was a wretched business.
But it was a great funeral. There were nine cabs, besides the hearse—Woodhouse had revived its ancient respect for the house of Houghton. A posse of minor tradesmen followed the cabs—all in black and with black gloves. The richer tradesmen sat in the cabs.
Poor Alvina, this was the only day in all her life when she was the centre of public attention. For once, every eye was upon her, every mind was thinking about her. Poor
