"I believe it was the work of some one who knew more about clothes than a dumb animal," responded the victim of the outrage; "and yet, it is like a monkey's trick, so unnecessary, and so mischievous."
"So wicked, I call it," cried Mrs. Rattray. "I must say you are bearing it marvellously well. It is more than I could do. I have no fortitude."
"What is the good of worrying? The thing is done; no amount of worrying will restore my pretty frocks, and I cannot afford to replace them for some time; that lemon satin cost forty guineas, and I'd be ashamed to tell you what I paid for the lilac tea-gown."
"You have no clue?" reiterated Mrs. Rattray.
"Unfortunately, I have not even that small consolation. Monkey or demon, it left no trace. Well now, I must be going—the sun is getting so strong I have a dreadful headache as it is."
And Mrs. Dawson went sadly down the steps, crawled into her carriage, and was driven away.
But Mrs. Rattray lingered yet awhile, despite the temperature, in order to discuss the tragedy with Mrs. Jones. Ere they separated, she said, "How pleased Mrs. Wilkinson will be! She will have it all her own way now."
"Yes," assented her companion, "she lives to dress, and dresses to live—it is only her clothes that hold her to earth. She is a mere shadow. Don't you think she looks frightfully ill, and that it is disgraceful that Colonel Wilkinson has kept her and the children down for three hot weathers? I declare it is next door to murder, and if she dies he ought to be hanged."
"She wants a change badly," admitted Mrs. Rattray, "but this news will act as a restorer, equal to two months' hill air."
"Colonel Wilkinson is a shameless screw," resumed the other; "everyone knows that he puts away half his pay monthly, that he never subscribes to anything—'poverty and a large family' his cry—and that poor Mrs. Wilkinson finds it almost impossible to get him to give her a twenty-rupee dress."