“Why?—suddenly—” said Miss Pinnegar.
“It’s not sudden,” laughed Alvina. “Not at all. I can’t stand him. I never could. And I won’t try. There! Isn’t that plain?” And she went off into her hurried laugh, partly at herself, partly at Arthur, partly at Albert, partly at Miss Pinnegar.
“Oh, well, if you’re so sure—” said Miss Pinnegar rather bitingly.
“I am quite sure—” said Alvina. “I’m quite certain.”
“Cock-sure people are often most mistaken,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I’d rather have my own mistakes than somebody else’s rights,” said Alvina.
“Then don’t expect anybody to pay for your mistakes,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“It would be all the same if I did,” said Alvina.
When she lay in bed, she stared at the light of the street-lamp on the wall. She was thinking busily: but heaven knows what she was thinking. She had sharpened the edge of her temper. She was waiting till tomorrow. She was waiting till she saw Albert Witham. She wanted to finish off with him. She was keen to cut clean through any correspondence with him. She stared for many hours at the light of the street-lamp, and there was a narrowed look in her eyes.
The next day she did not go to Morning Service, but stayed at home to cook the dinner. In the evening she sat in her place in the choir. In the Withams’ pew sat Lottie and Albert—no Arthur. Albert kept glancing up. Alvina could not bear the sight of him—she simply could not bear the sight of him. Yet in her low, sweet voice she sang the alto to the hymns, right to the vesper: