She showed the telegram to Miss Pinnegar.
“Good gracious!” said the weary Miss Pinnegar. “Fancy those people. And I warrant they’ll want to be at the funeral. As if he was anything to them—”
“I think it’s very nice of her,” said Alvina.
“Oh well,” said Miss Pinnegar. “If you think so. I don’t fancy he would have wanted such people following, myself. And what does she mean by both. Who’s the other?” Miss Pinnegar looked sharply at Alvina.
“Ciccio,” said Alvina.
“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.