e
bed, a cigarette between his fingers, dropping ash on the bare
boards between his feet. He looked up curiously at Alvina. She stood
watching him with wide, bright blue eyes, smiling slightly, and
saying nothing. He looked up at her steadily, on his guard, from
under his long black lashes.

"Won't you come?" she said, smiling and looking into his eyes. He
flicked off the ash of his cigarette with his little finger. She
wondered why he wore the nail of his little finger so long, so very
long. Still she smiled at him, and still he gave no sign.

"Do come!" she urged, never taking her eyes from him.

He made not the slightest movement, but sat with his hands dropped
between his knees, watching her, the cigarette wavering up its blue
thread of smoke.

"Won't you?" she said, as she stood with her back to the door.
"Won't you come?" She smiled strangely and vividly.

Suddenly she took a pace forward, stooped, watching his face as if
timidly, caught his brown hand in her own and lifted it towards
herself. His hand started, dropped the cigarette, but was not
withdrawn.

"You will come, won't you?" she said, smiling gently into his
strange, watchful yellow eyes, that looked fixedly into hers, the
dark pupil opening round and softening. She smiled into his
softening round eyes, the eyes of some animal which stares in one of
its silent, gentler moments. And suddenly she kissed his hand,
kissed it twice, quickly, on the fingers and the back. He wore a
silver ring. Even as she kissed his fingers with her lips, the
silver ring seemed to her a symbol of his subjection, inferiority.
She drew his hand slightly. And he rose to his feet.

She turned round and took the door-handle, still holding his fingers
in her left hand.

"You are coming, aren't you?" she said, looking over her shoulder
into his eyes. And taking consent from his unchanging eyes, she let
go his hand and slightly opened the door. He turned slowly, and
taking his coat from a nail, slung it over his shoulders and drew it
on. Then he picked up his hat, and put his foot on his half-smoked
cigarette, which lay smoking still. He followed her out of the room,
walking with his head rather forward, in the half loutish,
sensual-subjected way of the Italians.

As they entered the street, they saw the trim, French figure of
Madame standing alone, as if abandoned. Her face was very white
under her spotted veil, her eyes very black. She watched Ciccio
following behind A