Phyl and Dolly scrambled to their feet and rushed out, to find Weenie’s wash had been much more extensive than bargained for.
[91]
]They were allowed to use the water from an old “puzzle” jug that stood on one of the cupboards, but Harriet had been careless enough this evening, with the demands of “company” on her mind, to leave her bowl of washing-up water on the table, and Weenie had utilized that instead, since it was warm.
She had washed all the dolls’ clothes in it, they hung over the fire-guard, grey and greasy: there were two ancient wool antimacassars that were kept on the sofa when they were not doing duty as wraps for dolls or “ladies,”—she had washed them also and turned the water a queer shade of green. When she found her own pinafore was stained from the running wool she took it off and washed it too: when she found her white woollen frock was in the same condition she struggled out of it and dipped it in the basin and soaped and rinsed it vigorously, standing all the time on a chair. The clattering sound was caused by the chair slipping aside, and “down tumbled baby and white frock and all.”
Phyl and Dolly scolded energetically, as became elder sisters.
Then suddenly Phyl gave a scream of absolute horror and flew to the fire-guard. Hanging over it to dry, its gay colours running streakily into each other, its delicate lining turned a nondescript hue, was their cherished dolls’ counterpane.
“What’s the matter?” said Weenie wonderingly.
But Phyl and Dolly had burst into tears and [92] ]rushed together for the first overwhelming minute of bitter sorrow.
Weenie ran to them confidently, perfect joy on her face.
“The mangle isn’t broked,” she said, “it’s nosing but the handle tomed off. Mover’ll stick it on again; don’t cry, Dolly.”
Then they looked at her innocent face more in anger than in sorrow. Phyl even pushed her roughly away.