“Non. On n’entre pas—” called the well-known voice of Ciccio.
“Quoi faire, alors! Alvina, take him the rose to the gate, will you? Yes do! Their singing is horrible, I think. I can’t go down to him. But do take him the roses, and see what he looks like. Yes do!” Mrs. Tuke’s eyes were arched and excited. Alvina looked at her slowly. Alvina also was smiling to herself.
She went slowly down the stairs and out of the front door. From a bush at the side she pulled two sweet-smelling roses. Then in the drive she picked up Effie’s flowers. Ciccio was standing outside the gate.
“Allaye!” he said, in a soft, yearning voice.
“Mrs. Tuke sent you these roses,” said Alvina, putting the flowers through the bars of the gate.
“Allaye!” he said, caressing her hand, kissing it with a soft, passionate, yearning mouth. Alvina shivered. Quickly he opened the gate and drew her through. He drew her into the shadow of the wall, and put his arms round her, lifting her from her feet with passionate yearning.
“Allaye!” he said. “I love you, Allaye, my beautiful, Allaye. I love you, Allaye!” He held her fast to his breast and began to walk away with her. His throbbing, muscular power seemed completely to envelop her. He was just walking away with her down the road, clinging fast to her, enveloping her.
“Nurse! Nurse! I can’t see you! Nurse!—” came the long call of Mrs. Tuke through the night. Dogs began to bark.
“Put me down,” murmured Alvina. “Put me down, Ciccio.”
“Come with me to Italy. Come with me to Italy, Allaye. I can’t go to Italy by myself, Allaye. Come with me, be married to me—Allaye, Allaye—”