"Please don't," said Alvina. "Please don't find me anything. I don't
want anything. Please!"

"What?" said Madame, eyeing her closely. "You don't want? Why? You
don't want anything from Natcha-Kee-Tawara, or from Kishwegin? He?
From which?"

"Don't give me anything, please," said Alvina.

"All right! All right then. I won't. I won't give you anything. I
can't give you anything you want from Natcha-Kee-Tawara."

And Madame busied herself again with the packing.

"I'm awfully sorry you are going," said Alvina.

"Sorry? Why? Yes, so am I sorry we shan't see you any more. Yes, so
I am. But perhaps we shall see you another time--he? I shall send
you a post-card. Perhaps I shall send one of the young men on his
bicycle, to bring you something which I shall buy for you. Yes?
Shall I?"

"Oh! I should be awfully glad--but don't buy--" Alvina checked
herself in time. "Don't buy anything. Send me a little thing from
Natcha-Kee-Tawara. I _love_ the slippers--"

"But they are too small," said Madame, who had been watching her
with black eyes that read every motive. Madame too had her
avaricious side, and was glad to get back the slippers. "Very
well--very well, I will do that. I will send you some small thing
from Natcha-Kee-Tawara, and one of the young men shall bring it.
Perhaps Ciccio? He?"

"Thank you _so_ much," said Alvina, holding out her hand. "Good-bye.
I'm so sorry you're going."

"Well--well! We are not going so very far. Not so very far. Perhaps
we shall see each other another day. It may be. Good-bye!"

Madame took Alvina's hand, and smiled at her winsomely all at once,
kindly, from her inscrutable black eyes. A sudden unusual kindness.
Alvina flushed with surprise and a desire to cry.

"Yes. I am sorry you are not with Natcha-Kee-Tawara. But we shall
see. Good-bye. I shall do my packing."

Alvina carried down the things she had to remove. Then she went to
say good-bye to the young men, who were in various stages of their
toilet. Max alone was quite presentable.

Ciccio was just putting on the outer cover of his front tire. She
watched his brown thumbs press it into place. He was quick and sure,
much more capable, and even masterful, than you would have supposed,
seeing his tawny Mediterranean hands. He spun the wheel round,
patting it lightly.

"Is it finished?"

"Yes, I think." He reached his pump and blew up the tire. She
watched his softly-applied force. What physical, muscular force
there