She coloured deeply.
“They don’t wear wigs here,” he ventured to add.
“What then?” she asked, perplexedly.
“You will see. It is quite another world.”
“Shall I take it off, then? I have a nice Saturday kerchief,” she faltered. “It is of silk—I bought it at Kalmen’s for a bargain. It is still brand new.”
“Here one does not wear even a kerchief.”
“How then? Do they go about with their own hair?” she queried in ill-disguised bewilderment.
“Vell, alla right, put it on, quick!”
As she set about undoing her parcel, she bade him face about and screen her, so that neither he nor any stranger could see her bareheaded while she was replacing the wig by the kerchief. He obeyed. All the while the operation lasted he stood with his gaze on the floor, gnashing his teeth with disgust and shame, or hissing some Bowery oath.
“Is this better?” she asked bashfully, when her hair and part of her forehead were hidden under a kerchief of flaming blue and yellow, whose end dangled down her back.