A tress of beautiful hair, of unusual length and thickness, lay in the paper. The colour was that which is now so much sought after, and which great ladies endeavour to produce upon their own hair, when they have any, by washing it with extra-dry champagne, while little ladies imitate them with a humble solution of soda. The colour in question is a reddish-brown with rich golden lights in it, and it is very rare in nature.
The barber eyed the thick plait with a businesslike expression.
"The colour is not so bad," he remarked, as though suggesting that it might have been very much better.
"Surely, it is very beautiful hair!" said Vjera, her heart almost breaking at the sight of the tenderly treasured heirloom.
Suddenly the man snuffed the odour, lifted the tress to his nose, and smelt it. Then he laid it down again and took the thicker end, which was tied tightly with a ribband, in his hands, pulling at the short lengths of hair which projected beyond the knot. They broke very easily, with an odd, soft snap.
"It is worth nothing at all," said the barber decisively. "It is a pity, for it is a very pretty colour."
Vjera started, and steadied herself against the back of the professional chair which stood by the table.
"Nothing?" she repeated, half stupid with the pain of her disappointment. "Nothing? not even fifteen marks?"
"Nothing. It is rotten, and could not be worked. The hairs break like glass."
Vjera pressed her left hand to her side as though something hurt her. The tadpole youth grinned idiotically and the barber seemed anxious to end the interview.