Queen Elizabeth regarded me as sternly as she might have regarded—Well, I'm not very good at history.
"Do you mean to say," she said at last, "that that is as far as you have got? Somebody who had black hair?"
"Hang it," I protested, "it's something to have been measured for the wig."
"Have you been measured for your wig?"
"Well—er—no. That is to say, not exactly what you might call measured. But—well, the fact is that I was just going along now, only—I say, where do I get a wig?"
"You've done nothing," said Elizabeth, "absolutely nothing."
"I say, don't say that," I began nervously, "I've done an awful lot, really. I've practically got the costume, I'm going as Harold the Boy Earl, or Jessica's last—Hallo, there's my bus; I've got a cold, I mustn't keep it waiting. Good-bye." And I fled.
"I am going," I said, "as Julius Cæsar. He was practically bald. Think how cool that will be."
"Do you mean to say," cried Elizabeth, "that you have altered again?"