“Now what you want you must ask me for,” she said.
With what close curiosity Madame examined the ruby brooch.
“You can have that if you like, Madame,” said Alvina.
“You mean—what?”
“I will give you that brooch if you like to take it—”
“Give me this—!” cried Madame, and a flash went over her face. Then she changed into a sort of wheedling. “No—no. I shan’t take it! I shan’t take it. You don’t want to give away such a thing.”
“I don’t mind,” said Alvina. “Do take it if you like it.”
“Oh no! Oh no! I can’t take it. A beautiful thing it is, really. It would be worth over a thousand francs, because I believe it is quite genuine.”
“I’m sure it’s genuine,” said Alvina. “Do have it since you like it.”
“Oh, I can’t! I can’t!—”
“Yes do—”
“The beautiful red stones!—antique gems, antique gems—! And do you really give it to me?”
“Yes, I should like to.”
“You are a girl with a noble heart—” Madame threw her arms round Alvina’s neck, and kissed her. Alvina felt very cool about it. Madame locked up the jewels quickly, after one last look.
“My fowl,” she said, “which must not boil too fast.”
At length Alvina was called down to dinner. The young men were at table, talking as young men do, not very interestingly. After the meal, Ciccio sat and twanged his mandolin, making its crying noise vibrate through the house.
“I shall go and look at the town,” said Alvina.
“And who shall go with you?” asked Madame.
“I will go alone,” said Alvina, “unless you will come, Madame.”
“Alas no, I can’t. I can’t come. Will you really go alone?”
“Yes, I want to go to the women’s shops,” said Alvina.
“You want to! All right then! And you will come home at teatime, yes?”
As soon as Alvina had gone out Ciccio put away his mandolin and lit a cigarette. Then after a while he hailed Geoffrey, and the two young men sallied forth. Alvina, emerging from a draper’s shop in Rotherhampton Broadway, found them loitering on the pavement outside. And they strolled along with her. So she went into a shop that sold ladies’ underwear, leaving them on the pavement. She stayed as long as she could. But there they were when she came out. They had endless lounging patience.
“I thought you would be gone on,” she said.
“No hurry,” said Ciccio, and he took away her parcels from her, as if he had a right. She wished he wouldn’t tilt the flap of his black hat over one eye, and she wished there wasn’t quite so much waistline in the cut of his coat, and that he didn’t smoke cigarettes against the end of his nose in the street. But wishing wouldn’t alter him. He strayed alongside as if he half belonged, and half didn’t—most irritating.
She wasted as much time as possible in the shops, then they took the tram home again. Ciccio paid the three fares, laying his hand restrainingly on Gigi’s hand, when Gigi’s hand sought pence in his trouser pocket, and throwing his arm over his friend’s shoulder, in affectionate but vulgar triumph, when the fares were paid. Alvina was on her high horse.
They tried to talk to her, they tried to ingratiate themselves—but she wasn’t having any. She talked with icy pleasantness. And so the teatime passed, and the time after tea. The performance went rather mechanically, at the theatre, and the supper at home, with bottled beer and boiled ham, was a conventionally cheerful affair. Even Madame was a little afraid of Alvina this evening.
“I am tired, I shall go early to my room,” said Alvina.
“Yes, I think we are all tired,” said Madame.
“Why is it?” said Max metaphysically—“why is it that two merry evenings never follow one behind the other.”
“Max, beer makes thee a farceur of a fine quality,” said Madame. Alvina rose.
“Please don’t get up,” she said to the others. “I have my key and can see quite well,” she said. “Good night all.”
They rose and bowed their good nights. But Ciccio, with an obstinate and ugly little smile on his face, followed her.
“Please don’t come,” she said, turning at the street door. But obstinately he lounged into the street with her. He followed her to her door.
“Did you bring the flashlight?” she said. “The stair is so dark.”
He looked at her, and turned as if to get the light. Quickly she opened the house-door and slipped inside, shutting it sharply in his face. He stood for some moments looking at the door, and an ugly little look mounted his straight nose. He too turned indoors.
Alvina hurried to bed and slept well. And the next day the same, she was all icy pleasantness. The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were a little bit put out by her. She was a spoke in their wheel, a scotch to their facility. She made them irritable. And that evening—it was Friday—Ciccio did not rise to accompany her to her house. And she knew they were relieved that she had gone.
That did not please her. The next day, which was Saturday, the last and greatest day of the week, she found herself again somewhat of an outsider in the troupe. The tribe had assembled in its old unison. She was the intruder, the interloper. And Ciccio never looked at her, only showed her the half-averted side of his cheek, on which was a slightly jeering, ugly look.
“Will you go to Woodhouse tomorrow?” Madame asked her, rather coolly. They none of them called her Allaye any more.
“I’d better fetch some things, hadn’t I?” said Alvina.
“Certainly, if you think you will stay with us.”
This was a nasty slap in the face for her. But:
“I want to,” she said.
“Yes! Then you will go to Woodhouse tomorrow, and come to Mansfield on Monday morning? Like that shall it be? You will stay one night at Woodhouse?”
Through Alvina’s mind flitted the rapid thought—“They want an evening without me.” Her pride mounted obstinately. She very nearly said—“I may stay in Woodhouse altogether.” But she
