“I wish my hair was curly like Kitty Allen's,” she said.
“I like it this way,” said Raymond, unplaiting the long braids so as to fan them better.
“But hers curls up all the prettier when it's wet. Mine strings.”
“Straight hair's the nicest,” he said with finality.
He liked straight hair best! A wave of celestial bliss stole over her. It was wonderful: the big, fleecy clouds so serenely beautiful up in the enigmatic blue; the sun pouring warmly down and drying her dress in uneven patches; the whisperings of the green-jewelled leaves and the swishing of the diamond-bubbles on the stones; the drowsy, mysterious sounds from far away in the woods, and fragrance everywhere; and everything seeming delightfully remote; even the other boys and girls—everything and everybody save Raymond, standing there so patiently fanning the straight hair he admired.
Oh, the whole place was entrancing, entrancing in a new way; and her sensations, too, were entrancing in a new way. Even when Raymond, as he manipulated her hair, inadvertently pulled the roots, the prickly pains seemed to tingle on down through her being in little tremors of pure ecstasy.
Raymond went on fanning her hair.
“Curly hair's messy looking,” he observed after a considerable pause during which, evidently, his thoughts had remained centred on this pleasing theme.
And then, all of a sudden, Missy found herself saying an inexplicable, unheard-of thing:
“You can have a lock-if you want to.”