f he were a little uneasy and
disapproving. She had _come down_, in marrying Ciccio. She had lost
caste. He rather seemed to exult over her degradation. For he was a
northernized Italian, he had accepted English standards. His
children were English brats. He almost patronized Alvina.

But then a long, slow look from her remote blue eyes brought him up
sharp, and he envied Ciccio suddenly, he was almost in love with her
himself. She disturbed him. She disturbed him in his new English
aplomb of a London _restaurateur_, and she disturbed in him the old
Italian dark soul, to which he was renegade. He tried treating her
as an English lady. But the slow, remote look in her eyes made this
fall flat. He had to be Italian.

And he was jealous of Ciccio. In Ciccio's face was a lurking smile,
and round his fine nose there seemed a subtle, semi-defiant triumph.
After all, he had triumphed over his well-to-do, Anglicized cousin.
With a stealthy, leopard-like pride Ciccio went through the streets
of London in those wild early days of war. He was the one victor,
arching stealthily over the vanquished north.

Alvina saw nothing of all these complexities. For the time being,
she was all dark and potent. Things were curious to her. It was
curious to be in Battersea, in this English-Italian household, where
the children spoke English more readily than Italian. It was strange
to be high over the restaurant, to see the trees of the park, to
hear the clang of trams. It was strange to walk out and come to the
river. It was strange to feel the seethe of war and dread in the
air. But she did not question. She seemed steeped in the passional
influence of the man, as in some narcotic. She even forgot Mrs.
Tuke's atavism. Vague and unquestioning she went through the days,
she accompanied Ciccio into town, she went with him to make
purchases, or she sat by his side in the music hall, or she stayed
in her room and sewed, or she sat at meals with the Califanos, a
vague brightness on her face. And Mrs. Califano was very nice to
her, very gentle, though with a suspicion of malicious triumph,
mockery, beneath her gentleness. Still, she was nice and womanly,
hovering as she was between her English emancipation and her Italian
subordination. She half pitied Alvina, and was more than half
jealous of her.

Alvina was aware of nothing--only of the presence of Ciccio. It was
his physical presence which cast a spell over her. She lived within
his aura. A