“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-rà-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-rà-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.