Colonel Sladen could not find any appropriate retort beyond some inarticulate emotional noises.
“Fanny”—to her sister—“help Mrs. Glover and Mrs. Bell. Abdar”—to a servant—“take out all the chairs into the verandah, and send in the coolies to lift the table.”
Thus the smoking-room was stormed, and its lawful tenants scattered abroad by bold, domineering, and unscrupulous women. It was true that every department had been told off; the senior ladies had undertaken the supper-room. There were to be little tables for four—quite a novel departure; and on the day of the ball there was scarcely a small table left in any private house in Shirani—the bachelors had borrowed every one, as well as armchairs, rugs, and draperies. Rookwood was almost swept and garnished, in answer to the demands of Mrs. Brande’s “boy” Mark. Mrs. Langrishe, careful soul, had declined to lend one single chair or candlestick. It would have established a precedent. She, however, was good enough to spare her niece, who demonstrated that she could work hard, and decorate, and arrange flowers, when she pleased, and was full of clever expedients. She and Toby Joy presided over the arrangements of the long verandahs, and divided them with screens, palms, and sofas, hung up lamps, flags, and draperies, and devised numbers of sitting-out nooks with curiously sympathetic details and elaborate care. Their merry bursts of laughter continually penetrated to the ball-room, where a large party, by means of ladders, hammers, and nails, were festooning the walls with miles of bazaar muslin. Each department had its own special staff, and they embellished according to their collective taste, and in friendly rivalry with their neighbours.
One gang of workers visited another in order to offer their opinion and encouragement, and most of the young people enjoyed the decorations every whit as much as the grand result—the ball itself.
Honor, Mrs. Sladen, and half a dozen men and maidens were posted to the reception rooms and card-tent, and, strange to say, Honor and Mark Jervis shared the same hammer and bag of nails. Personal history has its epochs: brief seasons, during which life is fuller than usual. Never had the life of these two young people seemed so fruitful of pleasant events as at the present time!
Miss Valpy, the valiant leader of the forlorn hope which stormed the smoking-room, was resting from her labours. Lunch for the workers was to be served in an al fresco fashion in the back verandah. Meanwhile she reposed in a coign of vantage, an interested and lynx-eyed spectator. She did not rest alone; her companion, Mr. Skeggs—the youth who considered a young man a reward in himself—lolled lazily beside her.
He was a little afraid of Miss Valpy, her sharp tongue occasionally penetrated the rhinoceros hide of his conceit. But somehow the other girls had not encouraged his assistance, which—to tell the truth—had chiefly consisted in dropping packets of tacks about the floor and lavishing uncomplimentary criticism.
“This ought to be a ripping ball,” remarked the youth complacently. “Awfully well done. Some of them are working like niggers.” And he grinned like a schoolboy.
“I am glad to see that you have a generous appreciation of other people’s efforts,” rejoined the young lady sternly.
“Ah, well, yes”—stroking his exceedingly faint moustache. “I say, I wonder who will be the belle to-night? Who do you think the prettiest girl in Shirani? I bar the married ladies.”