She shook hands with him warmly.
“Yes, really!” she said. “I wish you would.”
“Good,” he said, a broad smile on his thick mouth. And all the time he watched her curiously, from his large eyes.
“Ciccio—a good chap, eh?” he said.
“Is he?” laughed Alvina.
“Ha-a—!” Gigi shook his head solemnly. “The best!” He made such solemn eyes, Alvina laughed. He laughed too, and picked up her bag as if it were a bubble.
“Na Cic’—” he said, as he saw Ciccio in the street. “Sommes d’accord.”
“Ben!” said Ciccio, holding out his hand for the bag. “Donne.”
“Ne-ne,” said Gigi, shrugging.
Alvina found herself on the new and busy station that Sunday morning, one of the little theatrical company. It was an odd experience. They were so obviously a theatrical company—people apart from the world. Madame was darting her black eyes here and there, behind her spotted veil, and standing with the ostensible self-possession of her profession. Max was circling round with large strides, round a big black box on which the red words Natcha-Kee-Tawara showed mystic, and round the small bunch of stage fittings at the end of the platform. Louis was waiting to get the tickets, Gigi and Ciccio were bringing up the bicycles. They were a whole train of departure in themselves, busy, bustling, cheerful—and curiously apart, vagrants.