She no longer wore her hair in its great avalanche of curls down her back; they were caught in now with an amber barrette. Nights Lilly loved to brush them out until they flared to a dust of gold about her head. There was no light too dull for this hair to catch. It sprang out in radiance against any background.
"When you sing Marguerite, Zoe, you won't need a wig."
"Ah, but when I sing Electra—Thaïs—the real me—no namby-pamby Marguerite—no pearls—that's how I feel about Thaïs—as if she were a great opal full of fire. Hair," flopping her head backward with a bounce of curls, "is hot—it restricts. These curls—they are all hot and crawly around my neck, holding me."
"Poor Harry! You remember how he used to love to take you out walking to show off your curls?"
"Lilly, is Mrs. Schum going to get well?"
"I don't know. It frightens me. I cannot bear to look ahead for her, poor dear."
"If she gets well she'll have to know, won't she, that Harry didn't go to war?"
"Yes, and somehow—I couldn't stand her knowing that."
"She'll know it some day, anyhow."
"Yes, but then maybe where it will be easier for her to understand."