He looked curiously at Miss Pinnegar, grinning slightly.
“Hé!” he said. “How do I know!”
“I should have thought it was obvious,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“Hé!” he ejaculated, not fully understanding.
“But of course those that are used to nothing better can’t see anything but what they’re used to,” she said, rising and shaking the crumbs from her black silk apron, into the fire. He watched her.
Miss Pinnegar went away into the scullery. Alvina was laying a fire in the drawing-room. She came with a dustpan to take some coal from the fire of the living-room.
“What do you want?” said Ciccio, rising. And he took the shovel from her hand.
“Big, hot fires, aren’t they?” he said, as he lifted the burning coals from the glowing mass of the grate.
“Enough,” said Alvina. “Enough! We’ll put it in the drawing-room.” He carried the shovel of flaming, smoking coals to the other room, and threw them in the grate on the sticks, watching Alvina put on more pieces of coal.
“Fine, a fire! Quick work, eh? A beautiful thing, a fire! You know what they say in my place: You can live without food, but you can’t live without fire.”