She lingered over her possessions: what to take, and what not to take. And so doing she wasted her time. It was already ten o’clock when she hurried downstairs. He was sitting quite still, waiting. He looked up at her.
“Now I must hurry,” she said. “I don’t think I shall be more than an hour.”
He put on his hat and went out with her.
“I shall tell the lawyer I am engaged to you. Shall I?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Tell him what you like.” He was indifferent.
“Because,” said Alvina gaily, “we can please ourselves what we do, whatever we say. I shall say we think of getting married in the summer, when we know each other better, and going to Italy.”
“Why shall you say all that?” said Ciccio.
“Because I shall have to give some account of myself, or they’ll make me do something I don’t want to do. You might come to the lawyer’s with me, will you? He’s an awfully nice old man. Then he’d believe in you.”
But Ciccio shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I shan’t go. He doesn’t want to see me.”
“Well, if you don’t want to. But I remember your name, Francesco Marasca, and I remember Pescocalascio.”
Ciccio heard in silence, as they walked the half-empty, Monday-morning street of Woodhouse. People kept nodding to Alvina. Some hurried inquisitively across to speak to her and look at Ciccio. Ciccio however stood aside and turned his back.
“Oh yes,” Alvina said. “I am staying with friends, here and there, for a few weeks. No, I don’t know when I shall be back. Goodbye!”
“You’re looking well, Alvina,” people said to her. “I think you’re looking wonderful. A change does you good.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” said Alvina brightly. And she was pleased she was looking well.
“Well, goodbye for a minute,” she said, glancing smiling into his eyes and nodding to him, as she left him at the gate of the lawyer’s house, by the ivy-covered wall.
The lawyer was a little man, all grey. Alvina had known him since she was a child: but rather as an official than an individual. She arrived all smiling in his room. He sat down and scrutinized her sharply, officially, before beginning.
“Well, Miss Houghton, and what news have you?”
“I don’t think I’ve any, Mr. Beeby. I came to you for news.”
“Ah!” said the lawyer, and he fingered a paperweight that covered a pile of papers. “I’m afraid there is nothing very pleasant, unfortunately. And nothing very unpleasant either, for that matter.”
He gave her a shrewd little smile.
“Is the will proved?”
“Not yet. But I expect it will be through in a few days’ time.”
“And are all the claims in?”
“Yes. I think so. I think so!” And again he laid his hand on the pile of papers under the paperweight, and ran through the edges with the tips of his fingers.
“All those?” said Alvina.
“Yes,” he said quietly. It sounded ominous.
“Many!” said Alvina.
“A fair amount! A fair amount! Let me show you a statement.”
He rose and brought her a paper. She made out, with the lawyer’s help, that the claims against her father’s property exceeded the gross estimate of his property by some seven hundred pounds.
“Does it mean we owe seven hundred pounds?” she asked.
“That is only on the estimate of the property. It might, of course, realize much more, when sold—or it might realize less.”
“How awful!” said Alvina, her courage sinking.
“Unfortunate! Unfortunate! However, I don’t think the realization of the property would amount to less than the estimate. I don’t think so.”
“But even then,” said Alvina. “There is sure to be something owing—”
She saw herself saddled with her father’s debts.
“I’m afraid so,” said the lawyer.
“And then what?” said Alvina.
“Oh—the creditors will have to be satisfied with a little less than they claim, I suppose. Not a very great deal, you see. I don’t expect they will complain a great deal. In fact, some of them will be less badly off than they feared. No, on that score we need not trouble further. Useless if we do, anyhow. But now, about yourself. Would you like me to try to compound with the creditors, so that you could have some sort of provision? They are mostly people who know you, know your condition: and I might try—”
“Try what?” said Alvina.
“To make some sort of compound. Perhaps you might retain a lease of Miss Pinnegar’s workrooms. Perhaps even something might be done about the cinematograph. What would you like—?”
Alvina sat still in her chair, looking through the window at the ivy sprays, and the leaf buds on the lilac. She felt she could not, she could not cut off every resource. In her own heart she had confidently expected a few hundred pounds: even a thousand or more. And that would make her something of a catch, to people who had nothing. But now!—nothing!—nothing at the back of her but her hundred pounds. When that was gone—!
In her dilemma she looked at the lawyer.
“You didn’t expect it would be quite so bad?” he said.
“I think I didn’t,” she said.
“No. Well—it might have been worse.”
Again he waited. And again she looked at him vacantly.
“What do you think?” he said.
For answer, she only looked at him with wide eyes.
“Perhaps you would rather decide later.”
“No,” she said. “No. It’s no use deciding later.”
The lawyer watched her with curious eyes, his hand beat a little impatiently.
“I will do my best,” he said, “to get what I can for you.”
“Oh well!” she said. “Better let everything go. I don’t want to hang on. Don’t bother about me at all. I shall go away, anyhow.”
“You will go away?” said the lawyer, and he studied his fingernails.
“Yes. I shan’t stay here.”
“Oh! And may I ask if you have any definite idea, where you will go?”
“I’ve got an engagement as pianist, with a travelling theatrical company.”
“Oh indeed!” said the lawyer, scrutinizing her sharply. She
