Peggy shot an angry glance at her hostess, and set to work again with doubled energy. Now that Rosalind had laughed at her inability, it would be misery to fail; but the bottle had evidently lain aside for some time, and a stiff black crust had formed round the cork which made it difficult to move. Peggy pulled and tugged, while Rosalind stood watching, laughing her aggravating, patronising little laugh, and dropping a word of instruction from time to time. And then, quite suddenly, a dreadful thing happened. In the flash of an eye—so quickly and unexpectedly, that, looking back upon it, it seemed like a nightmare which could not possibly have taken place in real life—the cork jerked out in Peggy’s hand, in response to a savage tug, and with it out flew an inky jet, which rose straight up in the air, separated into a multitude of tiny drops and descended in a flood—oh, the horror of that moment!—over Rosalind’s face, neck and dress.
One moment a fairy princess, a goddess of summer, the next a figure of fun with black spots scattered thickly over cheeks and nose, a big splash on the white shoulder, and inky daubs dotted here and there between the rose leaves. What a transformation! What a spectacle of horror! Peggy stood transfixed; Mellicent screamed in terror, and Esther ran forward, handkerchief in hand, only to be waved aside with angry vehemence. Rosalind’s face was convulsed with anger; she stamped her foot and spoke at the pitch of her voice, as if she had no control over her feelings.
“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 ready to go downstairs. It is eight o’clock. In a few minutes everyone will all 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.