"I wish we were all dead, _especially_ Miss Child," snarled the last
of the five, a symphony in black and all conceivable shades of blue.
Because of this combination, the Miss Child in question had named her
the "Bruise."
"Sorry! I'll try not to laugh again till the sea goes down," Miss
Child apologized. "I wasn't laughing at any of _you_ exactly, it was
more the whole situation: us, dressed like stars of the Russian ballet
and sick as dogs, pearls in our hair and basins in our hands, looking
like queens and feeling like dolls with our stuffing gone."
"Don't speak of stuffing. It makes me think of sage and onions,"
quavered the tallest queen.
"Ugh!" they all groaned, except Winifred Child, who was to blame for
starting the subject. "Ugh! Oh! Ugh!"
When they were better they lay back on their sofas, or leaned back in
their chairs, their beautiful--or meant to be beautiful--faces pale,
their eyes shut. And it was at this moment that Peter Rolls burst open
the door.
As he had observed, the waxlike figures moved, sat upright, and
stared. This sudden disturbance of brain balance made them all giddy,
but the surprise of seeing a man, not a steward, at the door, was so
great that for a moment or two it acted as a tonic.
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