“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 a single day, for ten years. Never. If I am going to lie abandoned, I had better die at once.”
“Lie abandoned!” said Max. “You know you won’t do no such thing. What are you talking about?”
“Take the thermometer,” said Geoffrey roughly, but with feeling.
“Tomorrow, see, you will be well. Quite certain!” said Louis. Madame mournfully shook her head, opened her mouth, and sat back with closed eyes and the stump of the thermometer comically protruding from a corner of her lips. Meanwhile Alvina took her plump white wrist and felt her pulse.
“We can practise—” began Geoffrey.
“Sh!” said Max, holding up his finger and looking anxiously at Alvina and Madame, who still leaned back with the stump of the thermometer jauntily perking up from her pursed mouth, while her face was rather ghastly.
Max and Louis watched anxiously. Geoffrey sat blowing the smoke down his nose, while Ciccio callously lit another cigarette, striking a match on his boot-heel and puffing from under the tip of his rather long nose. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth, turned his head, slowly spat on the floor, and rubbed his foot on his spit. Max flapped his eyelids and looked all disdain, murmuring something about “ein schmutziges italienisches Volk,” whilst Louis, refusing either to see or to hear, framed the word “chien” on his lips.
Then quick as lightning both turned their attention again to Madame.