"The one I had in my mind, when I asked you to trust me. Anthony, I want you to tell me. Do you trust me still?"
"Of course I do." He laid his hand caressingly on her head, "don't be afraid that I'll blame you in any--why, Clarice!"
He might well utter her name in an astonished tone, for the hair, so lightly pinned on her head, came off, and the plaits remained in his hand. There she sat, with her head cropped like a man's, and a pale smile on her face. "I intended to tell you," said she, quietly, "but it is just as well that you have found out in this way."
"Found out what? Why have you cut off your beautiful hair?"
"Don't you think that I look rather like Ferdy?"
"Very. But I don't want you to look like Ferdy. I prefer you as you are, my dear."
"My dear," she echoed, "does that mean forgiveness?"
"For what?" Anthony looked more puzzled than ever.
"For my masquerade. I cut off my hair. I dressed in a suit of Ferdy's clothes. I went to London as Ferdy, and stopped at his favourite hotel. Also I went to the Mascot Music Hall as Ferdy, and to Zara Dumps' flat as Ferdy, and learned a great deal."
Anthony stared at her open-mouthed. "Do you mean to say that you dressed as a man?" he asked, aghast.