“Hm!” she said. And Alvina did not know whether she was sceptical, or jealous, or admiring, or really impressed.
“And the diamonds are real?” said Madame, making Alvina hold up her hands.
“I’ve always understood so,” said Alvina.
Madame scrutinized, and slowly nodded her head. Then she looked into Alvina’s eyes, really a little jealous.
“Another four thousand francs there,” she said, nodding sagely.
“Really!” said Alvina.
“For sure. It’s enough—it’s enough—”
And there was a silence between the two women.
The young men had been out shopping for the supper. Louis, who knew where to find French and German stuff, came in with bundles, Ciccio returned with a couple of flasks, Geoffrey with sundry moist papers of edibles. Alvina helped Madame to put the anchovies and sardines and tunny and ham and salami on various plates, she broke off a bit of fern from one of the flower-pots, to stick in the pork-pie, she set the table with its ugly knives and forks and glasses. All the time her rings sparkled, her red brooch sent out beams, she laughed and was gay, she was quick, and she flattered Madame by being very deferential to her. Whether she was herself or not, in the hideous, common, stuffy sitting-room of the lodging-house she did not know or care. But she felt excited and gay. She knew the young men were watching her. Max gave his assistance wherever possible. Geoffrey watched her rings, half spell-bound. But Alvina was concerned only to flatter the plump, white, soft vanity of Madame. She carefully chose for Madame the finest plate, the clearest glass, the whitest-hafted knife, the most delicate fork. All of which Madame saw, with acute eyes.
At the theatre the same: Alvina played for Kishwégin, only for Kishwégin. And Madame had the time of her life.