“It’s a bad job it isn’t yours, for certain,” he said, as they entered the living-room, where Miss Pinnegar sat cutting bread and butter.
“What?” said Miss Pinnegar sharply.
“The house,” said Alvina.
“Oh well, we don’t know. We’ll hope for the best,” replied Miss Pinnegar, arranging the bread and butter on the plate. Then, rather tart, she added: “It is a bad job. And a good many things are a bad job, besides that. If Miss Houghton had what she ought to have, things would be very different, I assure you.”
“Oh yes,” said Ciccio, to whom this address was directed.
“Very different indeed. If all the money hadn’t been—lost—in the way it has, Miss Houghton wouldn’t be playing the piano, for one thing, in a cinematograph show.”
“No, perhaps not,” said Ciccio.
“Certainly not. It’s not the right thing for her to be doing, at all!”
“You think not?” said Ciccio.
“Do you imagine it is?” said Miss Pinnegar, turning point blank on him as he sat by the fire.