Mrs. Tuke went across to Alvina.
“Doesn’t he put his bowels into it—?” she said, laying her hand on her own full figure, and rolling her eyes mockingly. “I’m sure it’s more effective than senna-pods.”
Then she returned to her own window, huddled her furs over her breast, and rested her white elbows in the moonlight.
“Torn’ a Surrientu
Fammi campar—”
The song suddenly ended, in a clamorous, animal sort of yearning. Mrs. Tuke was quite still, resting her chin on her fingers. Alvina also was still. Then Mrs. Tuke slowly reached for the rose-buds on the old wall.
“Molto bella!” she cried, half ironically. “Molto bella! Je vous envoie une rose—” And she threw the roses out on to the drive. A man’s figure was seen hovering outside the gate, on the high-road. “Entrez!” called Mrs. Tuke. “Entrez! Prenez votre rose. Come in and take your rose.”
The man’s voice called something from the distance.
“What?” cried Mrs. Tuke.
“Je ne peux pas entrer.”
“Vous ne pouvez pas entrer? Pourquoi alors! La porte n’est pas fermée à clef. Entrez donc!”