"Only when they are provoked," said Alvina, thinking of Max.
"Yes, but you will not know what provokes him. Who can _say_ when he will be provoked? And then he beats you--"
There seemed to be a gathering triumph in Madame"s bright black eyes. Alvina looked at her, and turned to the door.
"At any rate I know now," she said, in rather a flat voice.
"And it is _true_. It is all of it true," whispered Madame vindictively. Alvina wanted to run from her.
"I _must_ go to the kitchen," she said. "Shall we go down?"
Alvina did not go into the drawing-room with Madame. She was too much upset, and she had almost a horror of seeing Ciccio at that moment.
Miss Pinnegar, her face stained carmine by the fire, was helping Mrs. Rollings with the dinner.
"Are they both staying, or only one?" she said tartly.
"Both," said Alvina, busying herself with the gravy, to hide her distress and confusion.
"The man as well," said Miss Pinnegar. "What does the woman want to bring _him_ for? I"m sure I don"t know what your father would say--a common show-fellow, _looks_ what he is--and staying to dinner."
Miss Pinnegar was thoroughly out of temper as she tried the potatoes. Alvina set the table. Then she went to the drawing-room.
"Will you come to dinner?" she said to her two guests.
Ciccio rose, threw his cigarette into the fire, and looked round.
Outside was a faint, watery sunshine: but at least it was out of doors. He felt himself imprisoned and out of his element. He had an irresistible impulse to go.
When he got into the hall he laid his hand on his hat. The stupid, constrained smile was on his face.
"I"ll go now," he said.
"We have set the table for you," said Alvina.
"Stop now, since you have stopped for so long," said Madame, darting her black looks at him.
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-ra-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-ra-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 p.r.o.nounced _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.