“Yes—probably I should—now!”
None the less, poor Miss Pinnegar was grey-haired, she was almost a dumpy, odd old woman.
They went downstairs. Miss Pinnegar put on the kettle.
“Would you like to see the house?” said Alvina to Ciccio.
He nodded. And she took him from room to room. His eyes looked quickly and curiously over everything, noticing things, but without criticism.
“This was my mother’s little sitting-room,” she said. “She sat here for years, in this chair.”
“Always here?” he said, looking into Alvina’s face.
“Yes. She was ill with her heart. This is another photograph of her. I’m not like her.”
“Who is that?” he asked, pointing to a photograph of the handsome, white-haired Miss Frost.
“That was Miss Frost, my governess. She lived here till she died. I loved her—she meant everything to me.”