How
my fellow-guests managed to keep their countenances I cannot tell. I am
certain _I_ never could have sat opposite to any one with such an
Ojibbeway Indian's head-dress on without giggling. But no one gave me
the least hint of my misfortune, and it only burst upon me suddenly when
I returned to my own room and my own glass. Still, there was a ray of
hope left: it _might_ have been the dampness of the drive home which had
worked me this woe. I rushed into F----'s dressing-room and demanded
quite fiercely whether my cap had been like that all the time.
"Why, yes," F---- admitted; adding by way of consolation, "In fact, it
is a good deal subdued now: it was very wild all dinner-time. I can't
say I admired it, but I supposed it was all right."
Did ever any one hear such shocking apathy? In answer to my reproaches
for not telling me, he only said, "Why, what could you have done with it
if you _had_ known? Taken it off and put it in your pocket, or what?"
I don't know, but anything would have been better than sitting at table
with a thing only fit for a May-Day sweep on one's head. It makes me hot
and angry with myself even to think of it now.
F----'s clothes could also relate some curious experiences which they
have had to go through, not only at the hands of his washerwoman, but at
those of his temporary valet, Jack (I beg his pardon, Umpashongwana) the
Zulu, whose zeal exceeds anything one can imagine.
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