Part 22 (1/2)
”Would you brush my silly mop of hair and then pa.s.s me my cap, dear? Oh this hair is a bother! I've often thought I'd have it cut off like a convict.”
”I think it is wonderful hair,” Marcella told her, brus.h.i.+ng it tenderly, and plaiting it back before she arranged it under a ridiculous boudoir cap of ribbon and lace.
”I can't tell you how I suffered during the night, dear,” said Mrs.
Hetherington plaintively. ”(Just pa.s.s me the hand mirror, will you?) I can't think why I was so foolish as to travel steerage. Those three emigrant girls in this cabin--my dear, they are absolutely _coa.r.s.e_! You should see their underclothes! Look, Marcella--I'm going to call you Marcella, you are so sweet. Look at that nightgown on the top bunk.
_Pink flannelette_! And I hate to share my cabin with them! They've gone on deck now for the day. I told them I simply must be alone.”
”Aren't you going to have any breakfast?” asked Marcella. ”I'll make you some tea if you like.” She and Louis had bought a teapot at Gibraltar, solemnly paying half each and sharing the responsibility for the sacrifice of the other one.
”No, I don't think I could drink tea. What do you think I could have?
You know, my dear, it was champagne that upset me like this! Mistah Petahs and I had a small bottle last night and it brought everything back.”
She began to wipe a plaintive eye on her small handkerchief.
”The day I married my dear George--the father of my darlings--we had champagne. It always brings it all back to me.”
”But--tea makes headaches better.”
”Not mine.” Mrs. Hetherington knitted her white brows and looked immensely interested.
”I think if you were to see dear Mistah Petahs and ask him to come along the alley-way and speak to me. He is so gentle, so sympathetic, he might suggest something, dear.”
”Um,” said Marcella, thinking of Jimmy. But she fetched Mistah Petahs who came with voluble and pleased sympathy.
He stood at the door of the cabin smiling fatuously. Mrs. Hetherington gave a little horrified shriek as she saw the tip of his toe over the threshold.
”No, no, naughty boy! You mustn't come in here! I'm shocked.”
”Are you ill?” he asked in a deeply pained voice.
”My poor, poor head, Mistah Petahs! That champagne last night brought everything back--dear George and all our happiness.”
”Oh, I say,” murmured Mr. Peters.
”I feel so ill, so terribly ill. What could I have? If this head doesn't get better I shall jump overboard, really I shall. And then the fishes will eat me!”
Mr. Peters contemplated the prospect hopefully.
”And--I keep thinking of my darlings,” she whispered, reduced to tears.
”What you want, little lady, is a hair of the dog that bit you,” said Mr. Peters judicially. She gave a gentle little scream.
”Oh you sound so fierce, Mistah Petahs! Which dog? When?” she asked guilelessly.
”I'll get it--you lie back, little lady, and rest your pretty head.”
She lay back, with swimming eyes.
He went half a step along the alley-way.