“Oh, oh, oh! You wicked girl! you hateful, detestable girl! You did it on purpose, because you were in a temper! You have been in a temper all the afternoon! You have spoiled my dress! I was weady to go downstairs. It is eight o’clock. In a few minutes everyone will be here, and oh, what shall I do—what shall I do! Whatever will mother say when she sees me?”
As if to give a practical answer to this inquiry, there came a sound of hasty footsteps in the corridor, the door flew open, and Lady Darcy rushed in, followed by the French maid.
“My darling, what is it? I heard your voice. Has something happened? Oh–h!” She stopped short, paralysed with consternation, while the maid wrung her hands in despair. “Rosalind, what have you done to yourself?”
“Nothing, nothing! It was Peggy Saville; she splashed me with her horrid boot-polish—I gave it to her for her shoes. It is on my face, my neck, in my mouth—”
“I was pulling the cork. It came out with a jerk. I didn’t know; I didn’t see!—”
Lady Darcy’s face stiffened with an expression of icy displeasure.
“It is too annoying! Your dress spoiled at the last moment! Inexcusable carelessness! What is to be done, Marie? I am in despair!”
The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with an indignant glance in Peggy’s direction.
“There is nothing to do. Put on another dress—that is all. Mademoiselle must change as quick as she can. If I sponge the spots, I spoil the whole thing at once.”
“But you could cut them out, couldn’t you?” cried Peggy, the picture of woe, yet miserably eager to make what amends she could. “You could cut out the spots with sharp scissors, and the holes would not show, for the chiffon is so full and loose. I—I think I could do it, if you would let me try!”