"I don't think I'll come down to breakfast this morning. Say I've got a most shocking headache, and fetch me up a cup of tea, there's a little love."
"Mother'll only come up and see what's the matter, so don't be silly. You've got to go downstairs some time."
"Oo-er, May, I wish I hadn't done it now. It's going whiter all the time. Look at it. Oh, what unnatural stuff. It can't go lighter than white, can it?"
Mrs. Raeburn, in the act of pouring out tea, held the pot suspended, and, shaking with laughter, looked at her daughter. Charlie, too, happened to be at home.
"Good gracious alive!" cried the mother.
"I thought I'd see how it looked," Jenny explained, with apologetic notes in her voice.
"You'll think your head right off next time," said Charlie profoundly.
Jenny was seized with an idea.
"I had to do it for the theater. At least, I thought—oh, well—don't all stare as if you'd never seen a girl with fair hair. You'll get used to it."
"I sha'n't," said Charlie hopelessly. "I shouldn't never get used to that, not if I lived till I was a hundred. Not if I never died at all."