“Un bel homme, cependant,” she whispered. “Mort en un jour. C’est trop fort, voyez!” And she sniggered with fear and sobs.
They went down to Alvina’s bare room. Madame glanced round, as she did in every room she entered.
“This was father’s bedroom,” said Alvina. “The other was mine. He wouldn’t have it anything but like this—bare.”
“Nature of a monk, a hermit,” whispered Madame. “Who would have thought it! Ah, the men, the men!”
And she unpinned her hat and patted her hair before the small mirror, into which she had to peep to see herself. Alvina stood waiting.
“And now—” whispered Madame, suddenly turning: “What about this Ciccio, hein?” It was ridiculous that she would not raise her voice above a whisper, upstairs there. But so it was.
She scrutinized Alvina with her eyes of bright black glass. Alvina looked back at her, but did not know what to say.
“What about him, hein? Will you marry him? Why will you?”
“I suppose because I like him,” said Alvina, flushing.
Madame made a little grimace.