“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?”