“But how,” she gurgled, “how would that affect me? If we kissed when we met, or always dined tête-à-tête. . . .”
“I trust,” said Jeremy stiffly, “that the indecent spectacle of an old friend gone wrong would twist the tail of your conscience. Besides, you wouldn’t like it when I accosted you in Bond Street, beard in hand.”
Miss Carew shuddered.
Then—
“Seriously, Jeremy, why shouldn’t I have it off? Listen. First, it would suit me. I went to see Sali to-day, and he said it’d look immense. It isn’t as if it were straight. It’s naturally curly, and I’d have it really well cut. Then, I go through such hell—hell, morning and night. I wish you could see it down. Then perhaps you’d realize what I mean.”
“I have,” said Jeremy Broke. “The night of the Lyvedens’ ball.”
“Well, how would you like to have to cope with it twice a day?”
Jeremy inclined his head.
“I cannot imagine a greater privilege.”
Eve smiled very charmingly.