Their female tribute, Rowan, has just drowned in the flood, their male tribute died five days ago from exhaustion, and Haymitch is blind drunk. He stumbles into Effie's room, though he can't remember exactly why he needed to be there, only that it was important at the time. She is getting ready to go to bed. Her wig is set on a wig stand, her clothes hung up carefully in the closet, and her makeup is gone, a colorful towel lying limply on the sink.
"Haymitch!" she shrieks, drawing her pink silk robe tightly around her. "I'm not dressed! What are you doing? Get out!"
"Well, excuse me, princess," says Haymitch, his drunkenness turning his words into a drawl, "Maybe I should have let you go to that final eight press conference in the morning and not tell you that our girl Rowan just drowned and there won't be any press conference tomorrow because they're all dead but the girl from Four."
She huffs. "Still doesn't make it right," she says. "It's not proper for you to see me like this, without, without clothes on, or makeup..."
"Oh, believe me," he says, "I don't mind. I could probably stand to see a little more," he says, deliberately leering. "Besides," he says, his mouth seemingly opening and talking for him, "you look better without it anyway."
Effie shakes her head, apparently taking him seriously. "No woman can be made to look worse with makeup. You're drunk."
"Doesn't mean it ain't true."