“You go on slapping her hands, auntie, while I burn another feather. Dear, to be sure, don’t she look bad! Downright silly, I call it, for ladies to be lacing themselves so tight, and she as thin as a fish to begin with! I declare, when I cut those green laces, they regular popped.”
As through layers of swirling mist which both blinded and deafened her, Mrs. Lafone vaguely caught these words. Another voice penetrated more sharply to her growing consciousness.
“And if you was to pull yourself in a bit, Pamela, you’d look a deal more genteel. A well-looking girl like you, with all your advantages and gowned, I will say that for you, with uncommon taste, to go about with such a milkmaid figure! I’d drink a tablespoonful of white vinegar night and morning, if I was you. Drat! How green she do keep! Slap a bit harder, child. I’m all of a dither to get into that little balcony that overlooks the supper-room, and see my Lady and His Highness and all.”
“A balcony, is there?” Pamela’s pleasant accents questioned.
“Yes, my dear, and you can come along with me, once we get the life back into Madam. A minstrels’ gallery they call it, overlooking the hall. Oh, I had a peep just now when I ran for the hartshorn. ’Tis the elegantest spectacle you ever saw; to look down on the supper table was like fairyland. Ain’t she sighed? She was always an aggravating piece,” said the elder Miss Pounce with some asperity.
Molly lay with closed eyes and fully recovered wits. She was debating whether to prolong the fit and let herself be carried back seemingly unconscious to her lodgings, would not be the best way out of an unpleasant dilemma. It would annoy these two impertinent females: that was an added advantage.
“Was they already at table when you looked in on them, auntie?” asked Madame Mirabel’s partner, between two brisk smacks of Mrs. Lafone’s palm.
“They was, my dear. Well, since there don’t seem to be a mite of use trying to get her to swallow anything, I’ll have that drop of ratafia myself. It sort of turns me to see people that colour—they was all a-sitting round the supper table, His Highness beside my Lady, and my Lord with Lady Flo, and just the rest of my Lady’s intimates. The supper table looking beautiful with the best gold plate. And them red, red roses my Lady paid such a sum for. And the Prince’s top-knot shining lovely, and your wreath—’twas the naturallest thing; you could have sworn the dew had just fallen on it! But my Lady Anne’s blue turban’s a trifle heavy for my taste, Pam. She was a-sitting rather glum, I thought, but perhaps that was because she didn’t have her gentleman.”
“Her gentleman?”
“My Lady was counting on Mr. Stafford——”