“Why? Why do you feel? Who makes you? Which of us makes you feel so? Tell me.”
“Nobody in particular. But I feel it.”
“Oh we-ell! If nobody makes you, and yet you feel it, it must be in yourself, don’t you see? Eh? Isn’t it so?”
“Perhaps it is,” admitted Alvina.
“We-ell then! We-ell—” So Madame gave her her congé. “But if you like to come back—if you laike—then—” Madame shrugged her shoulders—“you must come, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” said Alvina.
The young men were watching. They seemed indifferent. Ciccio turned aside, with his faint, stupid smile.
In the morning Madame gave Alvina all her belongings, from the little safe she called her bank.
“There is the money—so—and so—and so—that is correct. Please count it once more!—” Alvina counted it and kept it clutched in her hand. “And there are your rings, and your chain, and your locket—see—all—everything—! But not the brooch. Where is the brooch? Here! Shall I give it back, hein?”
“I gave it to you,” said Alvina, offended. She looked into Madame’s black eyes. Madame dropped her eyes.