unconsciously, but systematically frustrated. All this scheming for
selling out and making reservations and hanging on and fixing prices
and getting private bids for Manchester House and for the Endeavour,
the excitement of forming a Limited Company to run the Endeavour, of
seeing a lawyer about the sale of Manchester House and the
auctioneer about the sale of the furniture, of receiving men who
wanted to pick up the machines upstairs cheap, and of keeping
everything dangling, deciding nothing, putting everything off till
she had seen somebody else, this for the moment fascinated her, went
to her head. It was not until the second week had passed that her
excitement began to merge into irritation, and not until the third
week had gone by that she began to feel herself entangled in an
asphyxiating web of indecision, and her heart began to sing because
Ciccio had never turned up. Now she would have given anything to see
the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras again. But she did not know where they were.
Now she began to loathe the excitement of her property: doubtfully
hers, every stick of it. Now she would give anything to get away
from Woodhouse, from the horrible buzz and entanglement of her
sordid affairs. Now again her wild recklessness came over her.
She suddenly said she was going away somewhere: she would not say
where. She cashed all the money she could: a hundred-and-twenty-five
pounds. She took the train to Cheshire, to the last address of the
Natcha-Kee-Tawaras: she followed them to Stockport: and back to
Chinley: and there she was stuck for the night. Next day she dashed
back almost to Woodhouse, and swerved round to Sheffield. There, in
that black town, thank heaven, she saw their announcement on the
wall. She took a taxi to their theatre, and then on to their
lodgings. The first thing she saw was Louis, in his shirt sleeves,
on the landing above.
She laughed with excitement and pleasure. She seemed another woman.
Madame looked up, almost annoyed, when she entered.
"I couldn't keep away from you, Madame," she cried.
"Evidently," said Madame.
Madame was darning socks for the young men. She was a wonderful
mother for them, sewed for them, cooked for them, looked after them
most carefully. Not many minutes was Madame idle.
"Do you mind?" said Alvina.
Madame darned for some moments without answering.
"And how is everything at Woodhouse?" she asked.
"I couldn't bear it any longer. I couldn't bear it. So I collected
all the money I could, and ran away. Nobody knows where I am."
Madame looked up with bright, black, censorious eyes, at the flushed
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