Mrs Valetta came in to look at the mirror as I was hunting for something for dinner.
“You needn’t change,” she said. “Just turn in the collar of your dress and sling a fichu round your neck. I’ll lend you one if you haven’t got one.” She had something in her hand that looked like the tail of an old ball-gown.
“Oh, no, thank you,” I said fervently. “I have too much respect for a good gown to treat it in that fashion.”
I made haste to spread upon the bed a little black lace frock that I had brought for ordinary home use to wear in the evenings. Judy strolled in and gazed dejectedly at it.
“Every one will think it fearfully sidey of you to wear that,” she said at last, quite animatedly for her.
“Oh, but I am sidey,” I announced, laughing. For some reason I did not understand I felt as though I had a happy red robin in the place where my heart used to be. But Judy and Mrs Valetta met my gaiety with scowls. I tried to propitiate them, for I felt kindly disposed to all the world.
“It is not really an evening gown, only a little demi-toilette—long sleeves and a V; and I have nothing else. Still, I won’t wear it if you have any real objection, Judy.”
But already her interest in the matter was dead. As for Mrs Valetta, she had left the room utterly sick of life. I hardly recognised her for the same woman half an hour later, when I went in to dinner and found her seated there,—in a chrysanthemum-chiffon gown covered with Indian embroideries. Her corsage was composed of about three sequins, a piece of chiffon the size of a handkerchief, and a large diamond brooch.
Annabel Cleeve and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, who were dining with us, were also en grande tenue. My poor little black lace frock would have looked quite dowdy amongst them if it had not happened to be of such a distinguished cut. Even Judy had slung an evening gown of sorts upon her languid bones.
Unfortunately, the meal was not in keeping with our brilliant toilettes. The soup had a terrible flavour of tin, and was followed by floppy-looking shoulder of mutton which had the appearance of having been but recently slain. I remembered that I had seen Mafoota, the cook, leading a forlorn, predestined-looking goat by its horn that morning, and I could not but connect the two facts. The eyes of the potatoes, huge and black, glared at us dully from their dish, and a boiled ladybird reclined upon the infinitesimal helping of cabbage that was apportioned to me. No fish, no entrées, no wines; mountains of pumpkin. Every one except Anna Cleeve and I took a whiskey and soda, and that may have been some help. For dessert some woolly pudding, made of pale blue rice, with American canned peaches. I had eaten some lovely peaches at the Cape, but it takes American enterprise to penetrate into the wilds of Africa. Judy spake the thing that was when she said she had no genius for entertaining. I made no bones about bantering her on the subject.