"Why the dickens couldn't you _come_, instead of hanging about all day?"
Then they all turned on me, and chorused, "Get up! _Get up_!" and I
tried to get up, and the caught streamers of my dress held me fast, and
I sat down heavily again--_plop_, right on top of the poor gouty feet.
The General roared more loudly than before, the two other men called
out, "Oh, oh!" and I felt as if I should go into hysterics myself. It
was a most lacerating scene.
Mr Maplestone took out his penknife and hacked at the ends of my skirt;
the valet, who was the only calm and sensible one of the party, lifted
me up, and supported me in his arms till I was set free. Then he let go
suddenly, and I was so weak and giddy that I nearly fell down a third
time. The General closed his eyes and emitted heart-rending groans, and
the valet nipped hold of the handle of the chair and made for home as
fast as he could go. I stood in the midst of my rags and tatters, and
Mr Maplestone stood by my side.
"I hope you are not hurt."
"Oh, not at all!" I said bitterly. I was aching from head to foot. To
judge from my sensations, my right arm was paralysed for life. In some
mysterious way a wheel seemed to have passed over my feet, and my toes
burned like fire. Perhaps they were broken--I could not tell. I had
likewise several scrapes and a whole army of bruises, and the skirt of
one of my nicest afternoon frocks was torn into ribbons. And not one
word of thanks or appreciation. No wonder I was riled. "Oh, not at
all. I _like_ it! I am only sorry that I have contrived to hurt
General Underwood. Perhaps you will kindly convey my apologies."
He looked at me critically. Aches don't show on the surface, and I
expect I looked rather red than pale. The only visible signs of damage
were the ends of muslin and lace which strewed the road. He looked at
them and said solemnly:--
"Your dress is spoiled! I'm afraid it was partly my fault. I had to
get you free, and it was not a moment for deliberation. I'm sorry!"
He really _sounded_ sorry, and that smoothed me down. I murmured that
it didn't matter--only a muslin dress--not his fault, while he went on
staring fixedly. Then at last he spoke, and what he said gave me an
electric shock of surprise.
"It's a good thing," he said, "it wasn't the one with the frills!"
_The one with the frills_! For a moment my mind was a whirling void; I
was too stupefied to think. Then gradually it dawned upon me that he
must be alluding to a dress the skirt of which was composed entirely of
tiers of flounces. It was a new and favourite possession, and I also
was glad that it was spared. But--why should Mr Maplestone--