“My poor boys—no Kishwégin tomorrow! You don’t think I need see a priest, dear? A priest!” said Madame, her teeth chattering.
“Priest! Oh no! You’ll be better when we can get you warm. I think it’s only a chill. Mrs. Rollings is warming a blanket—”
Alvina ran downstairs. Max opened the sitting-room door and stood watching at the sound of footsteps. His rather bony fists were clenched beneath his loose shirt-cuffs, his eyebrows tragically lifted.
“Is she much ill?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think so. Do you mind heating the blanket while Mrs. Rollings makes thin gruel?”
Max and Louis stood heating blankets. Louis’ trousers were cut rather tight at the waist, and gave him a female look. Max was straight and stiff. Mrs. Rollings asked Geoffrey to fill the coal-scuttles and carry one upstairs. Geoffrey obediently went out with a lantern to the coal-shed. Afterwards he was to carry up the horsehair armchair.
“I must go home for some things,” said Alvina to Ciccio. “Will you come and carry them for me?”
He started up, and with one movement threw away his cigarette. He did not look at Alvina. His beautiful lashes seemed to screen his eyes. He was fairly tall, but loosely built for an Italian, with slightly sloping shoulders. Alvina noticed the brown, slender Mediterranean hand, as he put his fingers to his lips. It was a hand such as she did not know, prehensile and tender and dusky. With an odd graceful slouch he went into the passage and reached for his coat.
He did not say a word, but held aloof as he walked with Alvina.
“I’m sorry for Madame,” said Alvina, as she hurried rather breathless through the night. “She does think for you men.”
But Ciccio vouchsafed no answer, and walked with his hands in the pockets of his waterproof, wincing from the weather.
“I’m afraid she will never be able to dance tomorrow,” said Alvina.
“You think she won’t be able?” he said.
“I’m almost sure she won’t.”
After which he said nothing, and Alvina also kept silence till they came to the black dark passage and encumbered yard at the back of the house.
“I don’t think you can see at all,” she said. “It’s this way.” She groped for him in the dark, and met his groping hand.
“This way,” she said.
It was curious how light his fingers were in their clasp—almost like a child’s touch. So they came under the light from the window of the sitting-room.
Alvina hurried indoors, and the young man followed.
“I shall have to stay with Madame tonight,” she explained hurriedly. “She’s feverish, but she may throw it off if we can get her into a sweat.” And Alvina ran upstairs collecting things necessary. Ciccio stood back near the door, and answered all Miss Pinnegar’s entreaties to come to the fire with a shake of the head and a slight smile of the lips, bashful and stupid.
“But do come and warm yourself before you go out again,” said Miss Pinnegar, looking at the man as he drooped his head in the distance. He still shook dissent, but opened his mouth at last.
“It makes it colder after,” he said, showing his teeth in a slight, stupid smile.
“Oh well, if you think so,” said Miss Pinnegar, nettled. She couldn’t make heads or tails of him, and didn’t try.
When they got back, Madame was lightheaded, and talking excitedly of her dance, her young men. The three young men were terrified. They had got the blankets scorching hot. Alvina smeared the plasters and applied them to Madame’s side, where the pain was. What a white-skinned, soft, plump child she seemed! Her pain meant a touch of pleurisy, for sure. The men hovered outside the door. Alvina wrapped the poor patient in the hot blankets, got a few spoonfuls of hot gruel and whiskey down her throat, fastened her down in bed, lowered the light and banished the men from the stairs. Then she sat down to watch. Madame chafed, moaned, murmured feverishly. Alvina soothed her, and put her hands in bed. And at last the poor dear became quiet. Her brow was faintly moist. She fell into a quiet sleep, perspiring freely. Alvina watched her still, soothed her when she suddenly started and began to break out of the bedclothes, quieted her, pressed her gently, firmly down, folded her tight and made her submit to the perspiration against which, in convulsive starts, she fought and strove, crying that she was suffocating, she was too hot, too hot.
“Lie still, lie still,” said Alvina. “You must keep warm.”
Poor Madame moaned. How she hated seething in the bath of her own perspiration. Her wilful nature rebelled strongly. She would have thrown aside her coverings and gasped into the cold air, if Alvina had not pressed her down with that soft, inevitable pressure.
So the hours passed, till about one o’clock, when the perspiration became less profuse, and the patient was really better, really quieter. Then Alvina went downstairs for a moment. She saw the light still burning in the front room. Tapping, she entered. There sat Max by the fire, a picture of misery, with Louis opposite him, nodding asleep after his tears. On the sofa Geoffrey snored lightly, while Ciccio sat with his head on the table, his arms spread out, dead asleep. Again she noticed the tender, dusky Mediterranean hands, the slender wrists, slender for a man naturally loose and muscular.
“Haven’t you gone to bed?” whispered Alvina. “Why?”
Louis started awake. Max, the only stubborn watcher, shook his head lugubriously.
“But she’s better,” whispered Alvina. “She’s perspired. She’s better. She’s sleeping naturally.”
Max stared with round, sleep-whitened, owlish eyes, pessimistic and sceptical:
“Yes,” persisted Alvina. “Come and look at her. But don’t wake her, whatever you do.”
Max took off his slippers and rose to his tall height. Louis, like a scared chicken, followed. Each man held his slippers in his hand. They noiselessly entered and peeped stealthily over the heaped bedclothes. Madame was lying,
