"It had turned quite white, most of it." The girl shuddered. "Oh, it was horrid! I am sure you would not have liked it."
Cyril, looking into her limpid eyes, felt his sudden suspicions unworthy of him.
"You must grow a nice new crop of black curls, if you want to appease me," he answered.
"Oh, do you like black hair?" Her disappointment was obvious.
"Yes, don't you? Your hair was black before your illness."
"I know it was—but I hate it! At all events, as long as I must wear a wig, I should like to have a nice yellow one; nurse tells me I can get them quite easily."
"Dear me! But I don't think a wig nice at all."
"Don't you?" Her mouth drooped at the corners. She seemed on the verge of tears.
What an extraordinary child! he thought. But she mustn't cry—anything rather than that.
"My dear, if you want a wig, you shall have one immediately. Tell your nurse to send to the nearest hairdresser for an assortment from which you can make your choice."