"Certainly, if you think you will stay with us."

This was a nasty slap in the face for her. But:

"I want to," she said.

"Yes! Then you will go to Woodhouse tomorrow, and come to Mansfield
on Monday morning? Like that shall it be? You will stay one night at
Woodhouse?"

Through Alvina's mind flitted the rapid thought--"They want an
evening without me." Her pride mounted obstinately. She very nearly
said--"I may stay in Woodhouse altogether." But she held her tongue.

After all, they were very common people. They ought to be glad to
have her. Look how Madame snapped up that brooch! And look what an
uncouth lout Ciccio was! After all, she was demeaning herself
shamefully staying with them in common, sordid lodgings. After all,
she had been bred up differently from that. They had horribly low
standards--such low standards--not only of morality, but of life
altogether. Really, she had come down in the world, conforming to
such standards of life. She evoked the images of her mother and Miss
Frost: ladies, and noble women both. Whatever could she be thinking
of herself!

However, there was time for her to retrace her steps. She had not
given herself away. Except to Ciccio. And her heart burned when she
thought of him, partly with anger and mortification, partly, alas,
with undeniable and unsatisfied love. Let her bridle as she might,
her heart burned, and she wanted to look at him, she wanted him to
notice her. And instinct told her that he might ignore her for ever.
She went to her room an unhappy woman, and wept and fretted till
morning, chafing between humiliation and yearning.

CHAPTER X

THE FALL OF MANCHESTER HOUSE

Alvina rose chastened and wistful. As she was doing her hair, she
heard the plaintive nasal sound of Ciccio's mandoline. She looked
down the mixed vista of back-yards and little gardens, and was able
to catch sight of a portion of Ciccio, who was sitting on a box in
the blue-brick yard of his house, bare-headed and in his
shirt-sleeves, twitching away at the wailing mandoline. It was not a
warm morning, but there was a streak of sunshine. Alvina had noticed
that Ciccio did not seem to feel the cold, unless it were a wind or
a driving rain. He was playing the wildly-yearning Neapolitan songs,
of which Alvina knew nothing. But, although she only saw a section
of him, the glimpse of his head was enough to rouse in her that
overwhelming fascination, which came and went in spells. His
re