“Yes, I do. But I’ve only got black clothes, except uniforms.”
“Well look here now—! You’re not going on anywhere tonight, are you?”
“It is too late.”
“Well now, let’s turn into the hotel and have a talk. I’m acting under Effie’s orders, as you may gather—”
At the hotel Tommy gave her a letter from his wife: to the tune of—don’t marry this Italian, you’ll put yourself in a wretched hole, and one wants to avoid getting into holes. I know—concluded Effie, on a sinister note.
Tommy sang another tune. Ciccio was a lovely chap, a rare chap, a treat. He, Tommy, could quite understand any woman’s wanting to marry him—didn’t agree a bit with Effie. But marriage, you know, was so final. And then with this war on: you never knew how things might turn out: a foreigner and all that. And then—you won’t mind what I say—? We won’t talk about class and that rot. If the man’s good enough, he’s good enough by himself. But is he your intellectual equal, nurse? After all, it’s a big point. You don’t want to marry a man you can’t talk to. Ciccio’s a treat to be with, because he’s so natural. But it isn’t a mental treat—
Alvina thought of Mrs. Tuke, who complained that Tommy talked music and pseudo-philosophy by the hour when he was wound up. She saw Effie’s long, outstretched arm of repudiation and weariness.
“Of course!”—another of Mrs. Tuke’s exclamations. “Why not be atavistic if you can be, and follow at a man’s heel just because he’s a man. Be like barbarous women, a slave.”
During all this, Ciccio stayed out of the room, as bidden. It was not till Alvina sat before her mirror that he opened her door softly, and entered.
“I come in,” he said, and he closed the door.