“You’ll have to put ‘Also of,’” said Miss Pinnegar.
“Also of—” said Alvina. “One—two—three—four—five—six—. Six letters—thirty shillings. Seems an awful lot for Also of—”
“But you can’t leave it out,” said Miss Pinnegar. “You can’t economize over that.”
“I begrudge it,” said Alvina.
CHAPTER XI
HONOURABLE ENGAGEMENT
For days, after joining the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, Alvina was very quiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliating position as a hanger-on. They none of them took much notice of her. They drifted on, rather disjointedly. The cordiality, the joie de vivre did not revive. Madame was a little irritable, and very exacting, and inclined to be spiteful. Ciccio went his way with Geoffrey.
In the second week, Madame found out that a man had been surreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings, from the landlady and the landlady’s blowsy daughter. It must have been a detective—some shoddy detective. Madame waited. Then she sent Max over to Mansfield, on some fictitious errand. Yes, the lousy-looking dogs of detectives had been there too, making the most minute enquiries as to the behaviour of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, what they did, how their sleeping was arranged, how Madame addressed the men, what attitude the men took towards Alvina.
Madame waited again. And again, when they moved to Doncaster, the same two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, and plying the inmates of their lodging-house with questions. All the Natchas caught sight of the men. And Madame cleverly wormed out of the righteous and respectable landlady what the men had asked. Once more it was about the sleeping accommodation—whether the landlady heard anything in the night—whether she noticed anything in the bedrooms, in the beds.
No doubt about it, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were under suspicion. They were being followed, and watched. What for? Madame made a shrewd guess. “They want to say we are immoral foreigners,” she said.
“But what have our personal morals got to do with them?” said Max angrily.