“A p–p–pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!” echoed Mellicent, who had been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter “r” since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene—a peculiarity which happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent of spring. “How can a luncheon possibly be pink?”
“That’s more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean, Rob?” asked Peggy curiously; and Robert scowled, and shook back his shock of hair.
“Some American fad, I believe. The idea is to have everything of one colour—flowers, drapery, and food, china—everything that is on the table. It’s a fag and an awful handicap, for you can’t have half the things you want. But let us be modern or die—that’s the motto nowadays. Mother is always trying to get hold of new-fangled notions.”
“‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Jane Smith’s company to a magenta supper.’—‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Mr Jones’s company to a purple tea.’ It’s a splendid idea! I like it immensely,” said Peggy, pursing her lips, and staring in the fire in meditative fashion. “Pink—pink—what can we eat that is pink? P–prawns, p–pickles, p–p–pomegranates, P–aysandu tongues (you would call those pink, wouldn’t you—pinky red?) Humph! I don’t think it sounds very nice. Perhaps they dye the things with cochineal. I think I shall have a sensible brown and green meal before I go, and then I can nibble elegantly at the pinkies. Would it be considered a delicate mark of attention if I wore a pink frock?”
“Certainly it would. Wear that nice one that you put on in the evenings. Rosalind will be in pink from head to foot, you may depend on it,” said Robert confidently; whereupon Mellicent rushed headlong from the room to find her mother, and plead eagerly that summer crepon dresses of the desired tint should be brought forth from their hiding-place and freshened up for the occasion. To accede to this request meant an extra call upon time already fully occupied, but mothers have a way of not grudging trouble where their children are concerned. Mrs Asplin said, “Yes, darling, of course I will!” and set to work with such goodwill that all three girls sported pink dresses beneath their ulsters when they set off to partake of the mysterious luncheon, a few days later.
Rosalind came to the bedroom to receive them, and looked on from an arm-chair, while Lady Darcy’s maid helped the visitors to take off their wraps. She herself looked like a rose in her dainty pink draperies, and Peggy had an impression that she was not altogether pleased to see that her guests were as appropriately dressed as herself. She eyed them up and down, and made remarks to the maid in that fluent French of hers which was so unintelligible to the schoolgirls’ ears. The maid smirked and pursed up her lips, and then, meeting Peggy’s steady gaze, dropped her eyes in confusion. Peggy knew, as well as if she had understood every word, that the remarks exchanged between mistress and maid had been of a depreciatory nature, not as concerned her own attire—that was as perfect in its way as Rosalind’s own—but with reference to the home-made dresses of the vicar’s daughters, which seemed to have suddenly become clumsy and shapeless when viewed in the mirrors of this elegant bedroom. She was in arms at once on her friends’ behalf, and when Peggy’s dignity was hurt she was a formidable person to tackle. In this instance she fixed her eyes first on the maid, and then on Rosalind herself with a steady, disapproving stare which was not a little disconcerting.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but we really don’t know French well enough to follow your conversation! You were talking about us, I think. Perhaps you would be kind enough to repeat your remarks in English?”
“Oh–h, it doesn’t matter! It was nothing at all important!” Rosalind flushed, and had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of her own ill-breeding, but she did not by any means appreciate the reproof. The girls had not been ten minutes in the house, and already that aggravating Peggy Saville had succeeded in making her feel humiliated and uncomfortable. The same thing happened whenever they met. The respect and awe and adoring admiration which she was accustomed to receive from other girls of her own age seemed altogether wanting in Peggy’s case; and yet, strange to say, the very fact that she refused to fall down and worship invested Peggy with a peculiar importance in Rosalind’s eyes. She longed to overcome her prejudices and add her name to the list of her adorers, and to this end she considered her tastes in a way which would never have occurred to her in connection with Mrs Asplin’s daughters. In planning the pink luncheon Peggy had been continually in her mind, and it is doubtful whether she would have taken the trouble to arrange so difficult an entertainment had not the party from the vicarage included that important personage, Miss Mariquita Saville.
From the bedroom the girls adjourned to the morning-room, where Lady Darcy sat waiting; but almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings, the gong sounded to announce luncheon, and they walked across the hall aglow with expectation.
The table looked exquisite, and the guests stood still in the doorway and gasped with admiration. The weather outside was grey and murky, but tall standard lamps were placed here and there, and the light which streamed from beneath the pink silk shades gave an air of warmth and comfort to the room. Down the centre of the table lay a slip of looking-glass, on which graceful long-necked swans seemed to float to and fro, while troughs filled with soft pink blossoms formed a bordering. Garlands of pink flowers fell from the chandelier and were attached to the silver candelabra, in which pink candles burned with clear and steady flare. Glass, china, ornaments, were all of the same dainty colour, and beside each plate was a dainty little buttonhole nosegay, with a coral-headed pin, all ready to be attached to the dress or coat of the owner.