Part 43 (1/2)

”The Italian! Why goodness me! What's _he_ coming for? I can't make you out, Alvina. Is that his name, Chicho? I never heard such a name. Doesn't sound like a name at all to me. There won't be room for them in the cabs.”

”We'll order another.”

”More expense. I never knew such impertinent people--”

But Alvina did not hear her. On the next morning she dressed herself carefully in her new dress. It was black voile. Carefully she did her hair. Ciccio and Madame were coming. The thought of Ciccio made her shudder. She hung about, waiting. Luckily none of the funeral guests would arrive till after one o'clock. Alvina sat listless, musing, by the fire in the drawing-room. She left everything now to Miss Pinnegar and Mrs. Rollings. Miss Pinnegar, red-eyed and yellow-skinned, was irritable beyond words.

It was nearly mid-day when Alvina heard the gate. She hurried to open the front door. Madame was in her little black hat and her black spotted veil, Ciccio in a black overcoat was closing the yard door behind her.

”Oh, my dear girl!” Madame cried, trotting forward with outstretched black-kid hands, one of which held an umbrella: ”I am so shocked--I am so shocked to hear of your poor father. Am I to believe it?--am I really? No, I can't.”

She lifted her veil, kissed Alvina, and dabbed her eyes. Ciccio came up the steps. He took off his hat to Alvina, smiled slightly as he pa.s.sed her. He looked rather pale, constrained. She closed the door and ushered them into the drawing-room.

Madame looked round like a bird, examining the room and the furniture. She was evidently a little impressed. But all the time she was uttering her condolences.

”Tell me, poor girl, how it happened?”

”There isn't much to tell,” said Alvina, and she gave the brief account of James's illness and death.

”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.”