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 water-proof, 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 light-headed, 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 bed-clothes, 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, looking a little flushed and very girlish, sleeping lightly, with a strand of black hair stuck to her cheek, and her lips lightly parted.

  Max watched her for some moments. Then suddenly he straightened himself, pushed back his brown hair that was brushed up in the German fashion, and crossed himself, dropping his knee as before an altar; crossed himself and dropped his knee once more; and then a third time crossed himself and inclined before the altar. Then he straightened himself again, and turned aside.

  Louis also crossed himself. His tears burst out. He bowed and took the edge of a blanket to his lips, kissing it reverently. Then he covered his face with his hand.

  Meanwhile Madame slept lightly and innocently on.

  Alvina turned to go. Max silently followed, leading Louis by the arm. When they got downstairs, Max and Louis threw themselves in each other’s arms, and kissed each other on either cheek, gravely, in Continental fashion.

  “She is better,” said Max gravely, in French.

  “Thanks to God,” replied Louis.

  Alvina witnessed all this with some amazement. The men did not heed her. Max went over and shook Geoffrey, Louis put his hand on Ciccio’s shoulder. The sleepers were difficult to wake. The wakers shook the sleeping, but in vain. At last Geoffrey began to stir. But in vain Louis lifted Ciccio’s shoulders from the table. The head and the hands dropped inert. The long black lashes lay motionless, the rather long, fine Greek nose drew the same light breaths, the mouth remained shut. Strange fine black hair, he had, close as fur, animal, and naked, frail-seeming, tawny hands. There was a silver ring on one hand.

  Alvina suddenly seized one of the inert hands that slid on the tablecloth as Louis shook the young man’s shoulders. Tight she pressed the hand. Ciccio opened his tawny-yellowish eyes, that seemed to have been put in with a dirty finger, as the saying goes, owing to the sootiness of the lashes and brows. He was quite drunk with his first sleep, and saw nothing.

  “Wake up,” said Alvina, laughing, pressing his hand again.

  He lifted his head once more, suddenly clasped her hand, his eyes came to consciousness, his hand relaxed, he recognized her, and he sat back in his chair, turning his face aside and lowering his lashes.

  “Get up, great beast,” Louis was saying softly in French, pushing him as ox-drivers sometimes push their oxen. Ciccio staggered to his feet.

  “She is better,” they told him. “We are going to bed.”

  They took their candles and trooped off upstairs, each one bowing to Alvina as he passed. Max solemnly, Louis gallant, the other two dumb and sleepy. They occupied the two attic chambers.

  Alvina carried up the loose bed from the sofa, and slept on the floor before the fire in Madame’s room.

  Madame slept well and long, rousing and stirring and settling off again. It was eight o’clock before she asked her first question. Alvina was already up.

  “Oh — alors — Then I am better, I am quite well. I can dance today.”

  “I don’t think today,” said Alvina. “But perhaps tomorrow.”

  “No, today,” said Madame. “I can dance today, because I am quite well. I am Kishwégin.”

  “You are better. But you must lie still today. Yes, really — you will find you are weak when you try to stand.”

  Madame watched Alvina’s thin face with sullen eyes.

  “You are an Englishwoman, severe and materialist,” she said.

  Alvina started and looked round at her with wide blue eyes.

  “Why?” she said. There was a wan, pathetic look about her, a sort of heroism which Madame detested, but which now she found touching. “Come!” said Madame, stretching out her plump jewelled hand. “Come, I am an ungrateful woman. Come, they are not good for you, the people, I see it. Come to me.”

  Alvina went slowly to Madame, and took the outstretched hand. Madame kissed her hand, then drew her down and kissed her on either cheek, gravely, as the young men had kissed each other.

  “You have been good to Kishwégin, and Kishwégin has a heart that remembers. There, Miss Houghton, I shall do what you tell me. Kishwégin obeys you.” And Madame patted Alvina’s hand and nodded her head sagely.

  “Shall I take your temperature?” said Alvina.

  “Yes, my dear, you shall. You shall bid me, and I shall obey.”

  So Madame lay back on her pillow, submissively pursing the thermometer between her lips and watching Alvina with black eyes.

  “It’s all right,” said Alvina, as she looked at the thermometer. “Normal.”

  “Normal!” re-echoed Madame’s rather guttural voice. “Good! Well, then when shall I dance?”

  Alvina turned and looked at her.

  “I think, truly,” said Alvina, “it shouldn’t be before Thursday or Friday.”

  “Thursday!” repeated Madame. “You say Thursday?” There was a note of strong rebellion in her voice.

  “You’ll be so weak. You’ve only just escaped pleurisy. I can only say what I truly think, can’t I?”

  “Ah, you Englishwomen,” said Madame, watching with black eyes. “I think you like to have your own way. In all things, to have your own way. And over all people. You are so good, to have your own way. Yes, you good Englishwomen. Thursday. Very well, it shall be Thursday. Till Thursday, then, Kishwégin does not exist.”

  And she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. When she had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, she summoned the young men. Alvina had warned Max that she wanted Madame to be kept as quiet as possible this day.

  As soon as the first of the four appeared, in his shirt-sleeves and his slippers, in the doorway, Madame said:

  “Ah, there you are, my young men! Come in! Come in! It is not Kishwégin addresses you. Kishwégin does not exist till Thursday, as the English demoiselle makes it.” She held out her hand, faintly perfumed with eau de Cologne — the whole room smelled of eau de Cologne — and Max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. She touched his cheek gently with her other hand.

  “My faithful Max, my support.”

  Louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. He laid them down on the bed before her, and took her hand, bowing and kissing it reverently.

  “You are better, dear Madame?” he said, smiling long at her.

  “Better, yes, gentle Louis. And better for thy flowers, chivalric heart.” She put the violets and anemones to her face with both hands, and then gently laid them aside to extend her hand to Geoffrey.

  “The good Geoffrey will do his best, while there is no Kishwégin?” she said as he stooped to her salute.

  “Bien sûr,” Madame.”

  “Ciccio, a button off thy shirt-cuff. Where is my needle?” She looked round the room as Ciccio kissed her hand.

  “Did you want anything?” said Alvina, who had not followed the French.

  “My needle, to sew on this button. It is there, in the silk bag.”

  “I will do it,” said Alvina.

  “Thank you.”

  While Alvina sewed on the button, Madame spoke to her young men, principally to Max. They were to obey Max, she said, for he was their eldest brother. This afternoon they would practise well the scene of the White Prisoner. Very carefully they must practise, and they must find some one who would play the young squaw — for in this scene she had practically nothing to do, the young squaw, but just sit and stand. Miss Houghton — but ah, Miss Houghton must play the piano, she could not take the part of the young squaw. Some other then.

  While the interview was going on, Mr. May arrived, full of concern. “Shan’t we have the procession!” he cried.

  “Ah, the procession!” cried Madame.

  The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe upon request would signalize its entry into any town by a procession. The young men were dressed as Indian braves, and headed by Kishwégin they rode on horseback through the main streets. Ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served a very well-known horsey Marchese in an Italian cavalry regiment, did a bit of show riding.

  Mr. May was very keen on the procession. He had the horses in readiness. The morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and bad weather. And now he arrived to find Madame in bed and the young men holding council with her.

  “How very unfortunate!” cried Mr. May. “How very unfortunate!”

  “Dreadful! Dreadful!” wailed Madame from the bed.

  “But can’t we do _anything?_”

  “Yes — you can do the White Prisoner scene — the young men can do that, if you find a dummy squaw. Ah, I think I must get up after all.”

  Alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in Madame’s face.

  “Won’t you all go downstairs now?” said Alvina. “Mr. Max knows what you must do.”

  And she shooed the five men out of the bedroom.

  “I must get up. I won’t dance. I will be a dummy. But I must be there. It is too dre-eadful, too dre-eadful!” wailed Madame.

  “Don’t take any notice of them. They can manage by themselves. Men are such babies. Let them carry it through by themselves.”

  “Children — they are all children!” wailed Madame. “All children! And so, what will they do without their old _gouvernante? My poor braves_, what will they do without Kishwégin? It is too dreadful, too dre-eadful, yes. The poor Mr. May — so disappointed.”

  “Then let him be disappointed,” cried Alvina, as she forcibly tucked up Madame and made her lie still.

  “You are hard! You are a hard Englishwoman. All alike. All alike!” Madame subsided fretfully and weakly. Alvina moved softly about. And in a few minutes Madame was sleeping again.

  Alvina went downstairs. Mr. May was listening to Max, who was telling in German all about the White Prisoner scene. Mr. May had spent his boyhood in a German school. He cocked his head on one side, and, laying his hand on Max’s arm, entertained him in odd German. The others were silent. Ciccio made no pretence of listening, but smoked and stared at his own feet. Louis and Geoffrey half understood, so Louis nodded with a look of deep comprehension, whilst Geoffrey uttered short, snappy “Ja! — Ja! — Doch! — Eben!” rather irrelevant.

  “I’ll be the squaw,” cried Mr. May in English, breaking off and turning round to the company. He perked up his head in an odd, parrot-like fashion. “_I’ll_ be the squaw! What’s her name? Kishwégin? I’ll be Kishwégin.” And he bridled and beamed self-consciously.

  The two tall Swiss looked down on him, faintly smiling. Ciccio, sitting with his arms on his knees on the sofa, screwed round his head and watched the phenomenon of Mr. May with inscrutable, expressionless attention.

  “Let us go,” said Mr. May, bubbling with new importance. “Let us go and rehearse this morning, and let us do the procession this afternoon, when the colliers are just coming home. There! What? Isn’t that exactly the idea? Well! Will you be ready at once, _now?_”

  He looked excitedly at the young men. They nodded with slow gravity, as if they were already braves. And they turned to put on their boots. Soon they were all trooping down to Lumley, Mr. May prancing like a little circus-pony beside Alvina, the four young men rolling ahead.

  “What do you think of it?” cried Mr. May. “We’ve saved the situation — what? Don’t you think so? Don’t you think we can congratulate ourselves.”

  They found Mr. Houghton fussing about in the theatre. He was on tenterhooks of agitation, knowing Madame was ill.

  Max gave a brilliant display of yodelling.

  “But I must explain to them,” cried Mr. May. “I must explain to them what yodel means.”

  And turning to the empty theatre, he began, stretching forth his hand.

  “In the high Alps of Switzerland, where eternal snows and glaciers reign over luscious meadows full of flowers, if you should chance to awaken, as I have done, in some lonely wooden farm amid the mountain pastures, you — er — you — let me see — if you — no — if you should chance to spend the night in some lonely wooden farm, amid the upland pastures, dawn will awake you with a wild, inhuman song, you will open your eyes to the first gleam of icy, eternal sunbeams, your ears will be ringing with weird singing, that has no words and no meaning, but sounds as if some wild and icy god were warbling to himself as he wandered among the peaks of dawn. You look forth across the flowers to the blue snow, and you see, far off, a small figure of a man moving among the grass. It is a peasant singing his mountain song, warbling like some creature that lifted up its voice on the edge of the eternal snows, before the human race began — ”

  During this oration James Houghton sat with his chin in his hand, devoured with bitter jealousy, measuring Mr. May’s eloquence. And then he started, as Max, tall and handsome now in Tyrolese costume, white shirt and green, square braces, short trousers of chamois leather stitched with green and red, firm-planted naked knees, naked ankles and heavy shoes, warbled his native Yodel strains, a piercing and disturbing sound. He was flushed, erect, keen tempered and fierce and mountainous. There was a fierce, icy passion in the man. Alvina began to understand Madame’s subjection to him.

  Louis and Geoffrey did a farce dialogue, two foreigners at the same moment spying a purse in the street, struggling with each other and protesting they wanted to take it to the policeman, Ciccio, who stood solid and ridiculous. Mr. Houghton nodded slowly and gravely, as if to give his measured approval.