'no one can do anything for me, unless they can mend all this, and of course nobody can.'
'Your servant, miss,' said the footman. 'Do I understand that you order me to mend this?'
'If you can,' said Fina, a ray of hope lighting her blighted existence; 'but, of course What?'
The pagoda stood on the table—mended! Indeed, it seemed as though there had never been any breaking. It was there, safe and sound as it had always been, on its ebony stand, with the shining bubble of its glass case rising dome-like over it.
The footman had vanished.
'Well!' said Fina, 'I suppose it was all a waking dream. How horrible! I've read of waking dreams, but I didn't know there were ever waking nightmares. Perhaps I better had wash my hands—and my face,' she added, when she saw it, round, red, and streaked with mud (made of dust and tears), in the glass of the chiffonnier.
She dipped her face in fresh water in the willow-patterned basin in her big attic bedroom. Then she washed her hands. And as she began to rub the soap on she heard a noise.
