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. “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.”