“Give this letter to Madame,” Alvina said to Ciccio. “I shall be at the hall by seven tonight. I shall go straight there.”
“Why can’t you come now?” said Ciccio.
“I can’t possibly,” said Alvina. “The lawyer has just told me father’s debts come to much more than everything is worth. Nothing is ours—not even the plate you’re eating from. Everything is under seal to be sold to pay off what is owing. So I’ve got to get my own clothes and boots together, or they’ll be sold with the rest. Mr. Beeby wants you to go round at seven this evening, Miss Pinnegar—before I forget.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “Really! The house and the furniture and everything got to be sold up? Then we’re on the streets! I can’t believe it.”
“So he told me,” said Alvina.
“But how positively awful,” said Miss Pinnegar, sinking motionless into a chair.
“It’s not more than I expected,” said Alvina. “I’m putting my things into my two trunks, and I shall just ask Mrs. Slaney to store them for me. Then I’ve the bag I shall travel with.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “I can’t believe it! And when have we got to get out?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s a desperate hurry. They’ll take an inventory of all the things, and we can live on here till they’re actually ready for the sale.”
“And when will that be?”