maraschino_. Yet she didn't think
much of it. Hot, bitterish stuff--nothing: not like green
Chartreuse, which Dr. James gave her. Maraschino! Yes, that was it.
Made from cherries. Well, Ciccio's name was nearly the same.
Ridiculous! But she supposed Italian words were a good deal alike.

Ciccio, the marasca, the bitter cherry, was standing on the edge of
the crowd, looking on. He had no connection whatever with the
proceedings--stood outside, self-conscious, uncomfortable, bitten by
the wind, and hating the people who stared at him. He saw the trim,
plump figure of Madame, like some trim plump partridge among a flock
of barn-yard fowls. And he depended on her presence. Without her, he
would have felt too horribly uncomfortable on that raw hillside. She
and he were in some way allied. But these others, how alien and
uncouth he felt them. Impressed by their fine clothes, the English
working-classes were none the less barbarians to him, uncivilized:
just as he was to them an uncivilized animal. Uncouth, they seemed
to him, all raw angles and harshness, like their own weather. Not
that he thought about them. But he felt it in his flesh, the
harshness and discomfort of them. And Alvina was one of them. As she
stood there by the grave, pale and pinched and reserved looking, she
was of a piece with the hideous cold grey discomfort of the whole
scene. Never had anything been more uncongenial to him. He was dying
to get away--to clear out. That was all he wanted. Only some
southern obstinacy made him watch, from the duskiness of his face,
the pale, reserved girl at the grave. Perhaps he even disliked her,
at that time. But he watched in his dislike.

When the ceremony was over, and the mourners turned away to go back
to the cabs, Madame pressed forward to Alvina.

"I shall say good-bye now, Miss Houghton. We must go to the station
for the train. And thank you, thank you. Good-bye."

"But--" Alvina looked round.

"Ciccio is there. I see him. We must catch the train."

"Oh but--won't you drive? Won't you ask Ciccio to drive with you in
the cab? Where is he?"

Madame pointed him out as he hung back among the graves, his black
hat cocked a little on one side. He was watching. Alvina broke away
from her cousin, and went to him.

"Madame is going to drive to the station," she said. "She wants you
to get in with her."

He looked round at the cabs.

"All right," he said, and he picked his way across the graves to
Madame, f