“You shall. Tell me at once.”
“You don’t want to know about that place on the top of your head, just above your forehead, where you are so fond of parting your hair?”
“Yes, I do. I say, does it look so very bad?”
“Shocking. He has crossed the strips of sticking-plaster over and over, and across and across, till it looks just like a white star.”
“Oh dear,” he groaned, “how horrid! I say, though, has he cut the hair in front very short?”
“Well, not so short as he could have done it with a razor.”
“Val!” he shouted. “It’s too bad.”
“Yes,” I said; “it looks dreadful.”
“No, I mean of you; and if you go on like that again we shall quarrel.”
“Let’s change the conversation, then,” I said. “I say, oughtn’t old Briggs to have been here by now?”