CHAPTER II.
A WEIRD TOILETTE.
My spirit wrestles in anguish
With fancies that will not depart;
A ghost who borrowed my semblance
Has hid in the depth of my heart.
--Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen.
"Madame seems to be in very low spirits this morning," Suzanne had the audacity to remark to me as she deftly manipulated my wife's dark, luxuriant hair, to my infinite annoyance. She spoke in French, a language that always rubs me the wrong way. I gazed restlessly at the dainty furnishings of Caroline's dressing-room, and remained silent.
Presently Suzanne spoke again. "I hope that madame has received no bad news."
"Great Scott, girl! what are you driving at?" I heard my wife's voice exclaim, and my recklessness appalled me. Suzanne was paralyzed for a moment. I could see her pretty face in the mirror, and it had turned pale on the instant.
"Pardon me, madame," she gasped, "but I--I thought----"
"Don't think!" I cried, crossly. "Tie up my--this--ah, hair, and let me do the thinking, will you?"
Repentance for my harsh words came to me at once. Suzanne stifled a gasp and a sob and continued her work as a coiffeuse. I realized that I must control my impulsiveness at once. I had never understood what my friends had meant when they had accused me of a lack of imagination. I had taken pride in the fact that I was a straightforward, two-plus-two-makes-four kind of a man, not given to foolish fancies nor errant day-dreams. I had attributed my success in business to this tendency toward the matter-of-fact, but now, for the first time in my life, I regretted my lack of imaginative power. I must, for my dear Caroline's sake--yes, in the name of common decency--preserve my psychical incognito in the presence of my wife's maid. Suddenly, I was startled by hearing my voice in the bathroom uttering something that sounded much like an exclamation of horror. In my consternation I sat erect, listening intently.
"What is the matter, madame?" whispered Suzanne, excitedly. "Monsieur, too, seems out of sorts this morning."