“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 passed 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—”