Alvina worked herself into quite a fever, with her imaginings.
In the morning she told Miss Pinnegar.
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar, “you see me issuing tickets, don’t you? Yes—well. I’m afraid he will have to do that part himself. And you’re going to play the piano. It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! It’s a mercy Miss Frost and your mother are dead. He’s lost every bit of shame—every bit—if he ever had any—which I doubt very much. Well, all I can say, I’m glad I am not concerned. And I’m sorry for you, for being his daughter. I’m heart sorry for you, I am. Well, well—no sense of shame—no sense of shame—”
And Miss Pinnegar padded out of the room.
Alvina walked down to Lumley and was shown the site and was introduced to Mr. May. He bowed to her in his best American fashion, and treated her with admirable American deference.
“Don’t you think,” he said to her, “it’s an admirable scheme?”
“Wonderful,” she replied.
“Of cauce,” he said, “the erection will be a merely temporary one. Of cauce it won’t be anything to look at: just an old wooden travelling theatre. But then—all we need is to make a start.”
“And you are going to work the film?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said with pride, “I spend every evening with the operator at Marsh’s in Knarborough. Very interesting I find it—very interesting indeed. And you are going to play the piano?” he said, perking his head on one side and looking at her archly.