There were already acquaintances on the tram. She nodded in answer
to their salutation, but so obviously from a distance, that they
kept turning round to eye her and Ciccio. But they left her alone.
The breach between her and them was established for ever--and it was
her will which established it.
So up and down the weary hills of the hilly, industrial countryside,
till at last they drew near to Woodhouse. They passed the ruins of
Throttle-Ha'penny, and Alvina glanced at it indifferent. They ran
along the Knarborough Road. A fair number of Woodhouse young people
were strolling along the pavements in their Sunday clothes. She knew
them all. She knew Lizzie Bates's fox furs, and Fanny Clough's lilac
costume, and Mrs. Smitham's winged hat. She knew them all. And
almost inevitably the old Woodhouse feeling began to steal over her,
she was glad they could not see her, she was a little ashamed of
Ciccio. She wished, for the moment, Ciccio were not there. And as
the time came to get down, she looked anxiously back and forth to
see at which halt she had better descend--where fewer people would
notice her. But then she threw her scruples to the wind, and
descended into the staring, Sunday afternoon street, attended by
Ciccio, who carried her bag. She knew she was a marked figure.
They slipped round to Manchester House. Miss Pinnegar expected
Alvina, but by the train, which came later. So she had to be knocked
up, for she was lying down. She opened the door looking a little
patched in her cheeks, because of her curious colouring, and a
little forlorn, and a little dumpy, and a little irritable.
"I didn't know there'd be two of you," was her greeting.
"Didn't you," said Alvina, kissing her. "Ciccio came to carry my
bag."
"Oh," said Miss Pinnegar. "How do you do?" and she thrust out her
hand to him. He shook it loosely.
"I had your wire," said Miss Pinnegar. "You said the train. Mrs.
Rollings is coming in at four again--"
"Oh all right--" said Alvina.
The house was silent and afternoon-like. Ciccio took off his coat
and sat down in Mr. Houghton's chair. Alvina told him to smoke. He
kept silent and reserved. Miss Pinnegar, a poor, patch-cheeked,
rather round-backed figure with grey-brown fringe, stood as if she
did not quite know what to say or do.
She followed Alvina upstairs to her room.
"I can't think why you bring _him_ here," snapped Miss Pinnegar. "I
don't know what you're thinking about. The whole place is talking
already."
"I don't care," said Alvina. "I like him."
"Oh--for shame!" cried Miss Pinnegar, lifting her hand with Miss
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