With Mrs. Rollings she called at the chemist’s back door, and then they hurried through the sleet to the widow’s dwelling. It was not far. As they went up the entry they heard the sound of voices. But in the kitchen all was quiet. The voices came from the front room.
Mrs. Rollings tapped.
“Come in!” said a rather sharp voice. Alvina entered on the widow’s heels.
“I’ve brought you the cough stuff,” said the widow. “And Miss Huff’n’s come as well, to see how you was.”
Four young men were sitting round the table in their shirtsleeves, with bottles of Bass. There was much cigarette smoke. By the fire, which was burning brightly, sat a plump, pale woman with dark bright eyes and finely-drawn eyebrows: she might be any age between forty and fifty. There were grey threads in her tidy black hair. She was neatly dressed in a well-made black dress with a small lace collar. There was a slight look of self-commiseration on her face. She had a cigarette between her drooped fingers.
She rose as if with difficulty, and held out her plump hand, on which four or five rings showed. She had dropped the cigarette unnoticed into the hearth.
“How do you do,” she said. “I didn’t catch your name.” Madame’s voice was a little plaintive and plangent now, like a bronze reed mournfully vibrating.
“Alvina Houghton,” said Alvina.
“Daughter of him as owns the thee‑etter where you’re goin’ to act,” interposed the widow.
“Oh yes! Yes! I see. Miss Houghton. I didn’t know how it was said. Huff‑ton—yes? Miss Houghton. I’ve got a bad cold on my chest—” laying her plump hand with the rings on her plump bosom. “But let me introduce you to my young men—” A wave of the plump hand, whose forefinger was very slightly cigarette-stained, towards the table.
The four young men had risen, and stood looking at Alvina and Madame. The room was small, rather bare, with horsehair and white-crochet antimacassars and a linoleum floor. The table also was covered with a brightly-patterned American oilcloth, shiny but clean. A naked gas-jet hung over it. For furniture, there were just chairs, armchairs, table, and a horsehair antimacassar-ed sofa. Yet the little room seemed very full—full of people, young men with smart waistcoats and ties, but without coats.
“That is Max,” said Madame. “I shall tell you only their names, and not their family names, because that is easier for you—”
In the meantime Max had bowed. He was a tall Swiss with almond eyes and a flattish face and a rather stiff, ramrod figure.
“And that is Louis—” Louis bowed gracefully. He was a Swiss Frenchman, moderately tall, with prominent cheekbones and a wing of glossy black hair falling on his temple.
“And that is Géoffroi—Geoffrey—” Geoffrey made his bow—a broad-shouldered, watchful, taciturn man from Alpine France.
“And that is Francesco—Frank—” Francesco gave a faint curl of his lip, half smile, as he saluted her involuntarily in a military fashion. He was dark, rather tall and loose, with yellow-tawny eyes. He was an Italian from the south. Madame gave another look at him. “He doesn’t like his English name of Frank. You will see, he pulls a face. No, he doesn’t like it. We call him Ciccio also—” But Ciccio was dropping his head sheepishly, with the same faint smile on his face, half grimace, and stooping to his chair, wanting to sit down.
“These are my family of young men,” said Madame. “We are drawn from three races, though only Ciccio is not of our mountains. Will you please to sit down.”
They all took their chairs. There was a pause.
“My young men drink a little beer, after their horrible journey. As a rule, I do not like them to drink. But tonight they have a little beer. I do not take any myself, because I am afraid of inflaming myself.” She laid her hand on her breast, and took long, uneasy breaths. “I feel it. I feel it here.” She patted her breast. “It makes me afraid for tomorrow. Will you perhaps take a glass of beer? Ciccio, ask for another glass—” Ciccio, at the end of the table, did not rise, but looked round at Alvina as if he presumed there would be no need for him to move. The odd, supercilious curl of the lip persisted. Madame glared at him. But he turned the handsome side of his cheek towards her, with the faintest flicker of a sneer.
“No, thank you. I never take beer,” said Alvina hurriedly.
“No? Never? Oh!” Madame folded her hands, but her black eyes still darted venom at Ciccio. The rest of the young men fingered their glasses and put their cigarettes to their lips and blew the smoke down their noses, uncomfortably.
Madame closed her eyes and leaned back a moment. Then her face looked transparent and pallid, there were dark rings under her eyes, the beautifully-brushed hair shone dark like black glass above her ears. She was obviously unwell. The young men looked at her, and muttered to one another.
“I’m afraid your cold is rather bad,” said Alvina. “Will you let me take your temperature?”
Madame started and looked frightened.
“Oh, I don’t think you should trouble to do that,” she said.
Max, the tall, highly-coloured Swiss, turned to her, saying:
“Yes, you must have your temperature taken, and then we s’ll know, shan’t we. I had a hundred and five when we were in Redruth.”
Alvina had taken the thermometer from her pocket. Ciccio meanwhile muttered something in French—evidently something rude—meant for Max.
“What shall I do if I can’t work tomorrow!” moaned Madame, seeing Alvina hold up the thermometer towards the light. “Max, what shall we do?”
“You will stay in bed, and we must do the White Prisoner scene,” said Max, rather staccato and official.
Ciccio curled his lip and put his head aside. Alvina went across to Madame with the thermometer. Madame lifted her plump hand and fended off Alvina, while she made her last declaration:
“Never—never have I missed my work, for
