I showed it to him, at the same time making a face.
“Facial contraction,” he murmured, and then asked aloud:
“Do you still talk to yourself?”
“No.”
“With Fiam!”
“Let me alone; I am perfectly well.”
“No, you are ill, and I must cure you. I order ice on the head.”
“I have no ice.”
“But I have some.”
He went outside, took a piece of ice from his saddle bag, placed it on my head, bound it tight and said: