It had been a cold morning, clear and frosty, and she had caused a good
fire to be lit in the Princess's bedroom, for her to dress by. It still
prospered in the grate, and Mrs Quantock, having shut the door and
locked it, put on to it the false eyebrows, which, as they turned to
ash, flew up the chimney. Then she fed it with muslin; yards and yards
of muslin she poured on to it; never had there been so much muslin nor
that so exquisitely fine. It went to her heart to burn it, but there
was no time for minor considerations; every atom of that evidence must
be purged by fire. The Princess would certainly not write and say that
she had left some eyebrows and a hundred yards of muslin behind her,
for, knowing what she did, it would be to her interests as well as Mrs
Quantock's that those properties should vanish, as if they never had
been.
Up the chimney in sheets of flame went this delightful fabric;
sometimes it roared there, as if it had set the chimney on fire, and
she had to pause, shielding her scorched face, until the hollow
rumbling had died down. But at last the holocaust was over, and she
unlocked the door again. No one knew but she, and no one should ever
know. The Guru had turned out to be a curry-cook, but no intruding
Hermy had been here this time. As long as crystals fascinated and
automatic writing flourished, the secret of the muslin and the eyebrows
should repose in one bosom alone.
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