throwing his arm over his friend's shoulder, in
affectionate but vulgar triumph, when the fares were paid. Alvina
was on her high horse.

They tried to talk to her, they tried to ingratiate themselves--but
she wasn't having any. She talked with icy pleasantness. And so the
tea-time passed, and the time after tea. The performance went rather
mechanically, at the theatre, and the supper at home, with bottled
beer and boiled ham, was a conventionally cheerful affair. Even
Madame was a little afraid of Alvina this evening.

"I am tired, I shall go early to my room," said Alvina.

"Yes, I think we are all tired," said Madame.

"Why is it?" said Max metaphysically--"why is it that two merry
evenings never follow one behind the other."

"Max, beer makes thee a _farceur_ of a fine quality," said Madame.
Alvina rose.

"Please don't get up," she said to the others. "I have my key and
can see quite well," she said. "Good-night all."

They rose and bowed their good-nights. But Ciccio, with an obstinate
and ugly little smile on his face, followed her.

"Please don't come," she said, turning at the street door. But
obstinately he lounged into the street with her. He followed her to
her door.

"Did you bring the flash-light?" she said. "The stair is so dark."

He looked at her, and turned as if to get the light. Quickly she
opened the house-door and slipped inside, shutting it sharply in his
face. He stood for some moments looking at the door, and an ugly
little look mounted his straight nose. He too turned indoors.

Alvina hurried to bed and slept well. And the next day the same, she
was all icy pleasantness. The Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were a little bit
put out by her. She was a spoke in their wheel, a scotch to their
facility. She made them irritable. And that evening--it was
Friday--Ciccio did not rise to accompany her to her house. And she
knew they were relieved that she had gone.

That did not please her. The next day, which was Saturday, the last
and greatest day of the week, she found herself again somewhat of an
outsider in the troupe. The tribe had assembled in its old unison.
She was the intruder, the interloper. And Ciccio never looked at
her, only showed her the half-averted side of his cheek, on which
was a slightly jeering, ugly look.

"Will you go to Woodhouse tomorrow?" Madame asked her, rather
coolly. They none of them called her Allaye any more.

"I'd better fetch some things, hadn't I?" said Alvina.