“I am tired, I shall go early to my room,” said Alvina.
“Yes, I think we are all tired,” said Madame.
“Why is it?” said Max metaphysically—“why is it that two merry evenings never follow one behind the other.”
“Max, beer makes thee a farceur of a fine quality,” said Madame. Alvina rose.
“Please don’t get up,” she said to the others. “I have my key and can see quite well,” she said. “Good-night all.”
They rose and bowed their good-nights. But Ciccio, with an obstinate and ugly little smile on his face, followed her.
“Please don’t come,” she said, turning at the street door. But obstinately he lounged into the street with her. He followed her to her door.
“Did you bring the flash-light?” she said. “The stair is so dark.”
He looked at her, and turned as if to get the light. Quickly she opened the house-door and slipped inside, shutting it sharply in his face. He stood for some moments looking at the door, and an ugly little look mounted his straight nose. He too turned indoors.
Alvina hurried to bed and slept well. And the next day the same, she was all icy pleasantness. The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were a little bit put out by her. She was a spoke in their wheel, a scotch to their facility. She made them irritable. And that evening—it was Friday—Ciccio did not rise to accompany her to her house. And she knew they were relieved that she had gone.