“Because,” said Alvina gaily, “we can please ourselves what we do, whatever we say. I shall say we think of getting married in the summer, when we know each other better, and going to Italy.”
“Why shall you say all that?” said Ciccio.
“Because I shall have to give some account of myself, or they’ll make me do something I don’t want to do. You might come to the lawyer’s with me, will you? He’s an awfully nice old man. Then he’d believe in you.”
But Ciccio shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I shan’t go. He doesn’t want to see me.”
“Well, if you don’t want to. But I remember your name, Francesco Marasca, and I remember Pescocalascio.”
Ciccio heard in silence, as they walked the half-empty, Monday-morning street of Woodhouse. People kept nodding to Alvina. Some hurried inquisitively across to speak to her and look at Ciccio. Ciccio however stood aside and turned his back.
“Oh yes,” Alvina said. “I am staying with friends, here and there, for a few weeks. No, I don’t know when I shall be back. Good-bye!”
“You’re looking well, Alvina,” people said to her. “I think you’re looking wonderful. A change does you good.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” said Alvina brightly. And she was pleased she was looking well.