"You prefer my own hair!" she cried, and the corners of her mouth began to droop in a way he had already begun to dread. "Oh! what shall I do? Nurse tells me it will take ages and ages for it to grow again."

"There, there, my dear, it's all right. You look lovely--" he paused abruptly.

"Oh, do I?" she cried, beaming with delight. "I am so glad you think so!"

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"But it does," she insisted.

Cyril turned resolutely away. This sort of thing must stop, he determined.

"I would like to ask you one thing." She hesitated a moment. "Are we very poor?"

"No, why?"

"Then I could afford to have some pretty clothes?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, I'm so glad! I can't bear the ones I have on. I can't think why I ever bought anything so ugly. I shall throw them away as soon as I can get others. By the way, where is my box? Nurse tells me that I arrived here with nothing but a small hand-bag."

"It has gone astray," he stammered. "It will turn up soon, no doubt, but in the meantime I have bought a few clothes for your immediate use."

"Oh, have you? Where are they?" she cried, clapping her hands.

Now was the crucial moment. He must introduce the subject of her departure tactfully.

"They are outside in a cab."

She ran to the window.

"But I see no cab."

"It is waiting a little farther down the street."

She looked bewildered.

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