Miss Ram's next words caused him to start in his seat.
“But your hair is brown.”
My contemptible George, all his lies now rushing furious upon him, put his hand to his head; withdrawing it, gazed at the palm with the air of one looking for a stain.
“How about that?” rapped Miss Ram.
George gave a wan smile. “It is my misfortune,” he said simply—“my little cross. We all have our burdens in this life, Miss Ram. Pardon me if I do not care to dwell upon mine.”
With a bow Miss Ram indicated sympathy; decorously closed the subject.
George gave a little sigh. With a simulation of brightness he proceeded: “You are sure you have no other lady?”
“I have one,” said Miss Ram. “She would not suit.”
“May I be allowed to judge?”
Miss Ram turned to the ledger. “'Miss Mary Humfray.'”