Salemina smiled, and I
told an anecdote, during the operation, although my egg was cracked
in the boiling, and I question if the Queen's favourite maid-of-
honour could have managed it prettily.
Accordingly, when eggs were
brought to the breakfast-table at Marjorimallow Hall, we were only
slightly nervous. Francesca was at the far end of the long table,
and I do not know how she fared, but from various Anglicisms that
Salemina dropped, as she chatted with the Queen's Counsel on her
left, I could see that her nerve was steady and circulation free.
We exchanged glances (there was the mistake!), and with an
embarrassed laugh she struck her egg a hasty blow.
Her egg-cup slipped and lurched; a top fraction of the egg flew in
the direction of the Q.C., and the remaining portion oozed, in
yellow confusion, rapidly into her plate. Alas for that past
mistress of elegant dignity, Salemina! If I had been at Her
Majesty's table, I should have smiled, even if I had gone to the
Tower the next moment; but as it was, I became hysterical. My
neighbour, a portly member of Parliament, looked amazed, Salemina
grew scarlet, the situation was charged with danger; and, rapidly
viewing the various exits, I chose the humorous one, and told as
picturesquely as possible the whole story of our school of egg-
opening in Dovermarle Street, the highly arduous and encouraging
rehearsals conducted there, and the stupendous failure incident to
our first public appearance.
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