And then Madame wiped her own shrewd black eyes, and nodded slow approval. Suddenly Louis started and held up a warning finger. They all at once covered their smiles and pulled themselves together. Only Alvina lay silently laughing.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Rollings!” they heard Mr. May’s voice. “Your company is lively. Is Miss Houghton here? May I go through?”
They heard his quick little step and his quick little tap.
“Come in,” called Madame.
The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras all sat with straight faces. Only poor Alvina lay back in her chair in a new weak convulsion. Mr. May glanced quickly round, and advanced to Madame.
“Oh, good-morning, Madame, so glad to see you downstairs,” he said, taking her hand and bowing ceremoniously. “Excuse my intruding on your mirth!” He looked archly round. Alvina was still incompetent. She lay leaning sideways in her chair, and could not even speak to him.
“It was evidently a good joke,” he said. “May I hear it too?”
“Oh,” said Madame, drawling. “It was no joke. It was only Louis making a fool of himself, doing a turn.”
“Must have been a good one,” said Mr. May. “Can’t we put it on?”
“No,” drawled Madame, “it was nothing—just a non-sensical mood of the moment. Won’t you sit down? You would like a little whiskey?—yes?”