The three girls spent an afternoon in the British Museum, and discussed Mollusks and Lepidoptera with surreptitious pauses to yawn behind the glass cases, until the first barriers of formality were broken down by the fascination of Egyptian mummies, and the thrilling, imaginary histories which Peggy wove concerning their life on earth. They went over the Tower, and enlivened the tedium of a Beefeater’s life by discussing in his presence how best to steal the treasured Koh-i-nor; and finally, they visited the National Gallery, and on their return Mellicent and Eunice sat on Peggy’s bed, while that young person represented some of the celebrated portraits for their benefit, with the aid of such properties as the room afforded.
“Portrait of a young girl, by Sir Peter Lely,” announced the clear voice; and the audience turned their heads, to behold a demure visage framed by braided hairy a white towel pinned severely across the shoulders, and a milk-white blossom held in a mittened hand. The chintz curtain with its bouquets of flowers made an admirable background for the youthful figure, and the lamb-like innocence of expression was touching to behold. Eunice gripped her companion’s arm and pointed breathlessly to the feet peeping out beneath the short white skirt. The flat black shoes with the sandal-like crossings were the exact counterpart of those in the picture; but how in the name of mystery had Peggy managed to produce them? Eunice discussed the question with Mellicent in the pause during which they were requested to “look the other way,” and had reached the solution of goloshes and ribbon, when “Gloriana, by Rubens!” was introduced to their notice.
Miss Peggy reclined against a background of cushions, beamingly conscious of a transformation so complete as to be positively startling to behold. A trio of sponges pinned round the head gave the effect of an elaborate coiffure, above which was perched a scarlet turban decorated by half-a-dozen brooches, holding in position as many feathers; a blue dressing-gown opened over an underskirt composed of an eiderdown quilt, which gave an appropriately portly air to the figure, and by some mysterious process a double chin had been produced for the occasion! Gasps of delight from the bed greeted this masterpiece; but the third impersonation was most successful of all, when the audience shrieked aloud to behold Lady Macbeth glaring upon them from a yard’s distance, enveloped in bath sheets, and wearing such an expression of horror on her face as chilled the blood to behold!
“Not all the spices of Arabia can sweeten this little hand!” hissed Peggy, shaking her little paw in the air, while Mellicent screamed with delight and pounded the ground with her heels, and Eunice lay prone against the bedpost in a silent paroxysm of laughter. To see Eunice Rollo laugh was a delightful experience, and one which was worth some trouble to enjoy. Not a sound issued from her lips, not an exclamation marked her enjoyment; like a helpless image she sat, and shook, and trembled, and quivered from head to foot, while her face grew pink, and the tears rose in her eyes, and streamed unheeded down her cheeks. The sight of her, dumb, shaking, weeping—roused the other girls to uncontrollable mirth, and the louder they laughed, the more did Eunice weep; the more violently did they gesticulate and prance about the room, the closer did she hug her bedpost, the more motionless she appeared.
To be forced into laughter, real, honest, uncontrollable laughter, as opposed to the forced guffaw of society, seemed a new experience to this only child of busy and pre-occupied parents; and it needed only Arthur’s assurance that he had never seen the girl so bright and animated to put the final touch to Peggy’s growing liking.
On the present occasion Eunice and her mother had come to tea at the hotel, and as Rosalind and Hector were also expected within the next half-hour, it was quite necessary that Peggy should get her eyes in order without delay. She was not in a mood to give a cordial welcome to the destroyer of her brother’s happiness, and, despite her efforts to the contrary, there was a chill in her manner which Rosalind was quick to note. It worried her, as it had worried her in the old girlish days when Peggy Saville had refused to pay the homage which she expected from her companions, and now, as then, she put forth all her fascinations in order to subdue the unruly spirit. The princess in the fairy-tale seemed again the only creature to whom to compare her as she sat enthroned on the sofa, her lovely face alight with smiles and dimples. Eunice Rollo looked like a little grey mouse beside her, the very colour seeming to be absorbed from her face by the brilliancy of the contrast, while bonnie Mellicent appeared of a sudden awkward and blousy.
“Rosalind makes every one else look a fright, the moment she comes into a room. I shudder to think of the guy I must appear. Poor dear Arthur! I don’t wonder at his devotion. She is so lovely that she fascinates one in spite of oneself!” sighed Peggy, trying to harden herself against the glances of the sweet caressing eyes, and feeling her heart softening with every moment that passed.
All her thoughts were centred on Rosalind and Arthur, and she presided over the tea-tray with a sublime absence of mind which afforded Hector Darcy much amusement. His own cup was filled last of all, and seating himself beside her he gravely extracted from it six separate lumps of sugar, which he ranged in a neat little row on a plate.
“Seeing that you asked me twice over if I took sugar, and on hearing that I did not, immediately ladled in the largest pieces you could find, I conclude that there is something weighing on your mind,” he said markedly. “What is it? Nothing unpleasant, I hope—nothing serious?”
“A bad habit of thinking of several things at the same time, coupled with the fatigues of a London season. That is the explanation!” sighed Peggy, patting the discarded lumps into a pulp with her spoon, and moulding them into pyramid shape with as earnest an air as if her life depended on the operation. “We have been terribly energetic—flying about all day long and living in a perfect whirl of excitement.”