Miss Pinnegar rose to go upstairs and weep. She felt very forlorn. Alvina rose to wipe the dishes, hastily, because the funeral guests would all be coming. Madame went into the drawing-room to smoke her sly cigarette.
Mr. May was the first to turn up for the lugubrious affair: very tight and tailored, but a little extinguished, all in black. He never wore black, and was very unhappy in it, being almost morbidly sensitive to the impression the colour made on him. He was set to entertain Madame.
She did not pretend distress, but sat black-eyed and watchful, very much her business self.
“What about the theatre?—will it go on?” she asked.
“Well I don’t know. I don’t know Miss Houghton’s intentions,” said Mr. May. He was a little stilted today.
“It’s hers?” said Madame.
“Why, as far as I understand—”
“And if she wants to sell out—?”
Mr. May spread his hands, and looked dismal, but distant.
“You should form a company, and carry on—” said Madame.