“What you said, sir, about Mrs Sarson, sir—her future, sir.”
“Oh, you mustn’t ask me, Mr Wimble. It would be very much out of place for me to say anything. Done?”
“One minute, sir. Anything on, sir? Lime cream?”
“No; just a brush.—Thanks; that will do.—Good morning.”
Trifling words do a great deal of mischief sometimes, and Chris Lisle’s had the effect of making the owner of the museum stand at his door with his head sidewise, watching his last client till he was out of sight, and as he went down the street, dark thoughts entered his mind about age and good looks and opportunity; of the result of his own observations in life as to the weakness of elderly ladies for youth; and one by one ideas came into his mind such as had never been there before.
“If it does turn out so,” he muttered, as he slowly went back into his place of business, and apostrophised the head of a huge dog-fish which had been preserved and furnished with two glass eyes, asquint, and whose drying had resulted in a peculiar one-sided smile; “yes, if it does turn out so, I hope, for his sake and mine, he will not come here to be shaved.”
His thoughts had such a terrible effect upon Michael Wimble, that he took a razor from where it reposed in one of a series of leather loops against the wall, opened it, seized a leather strap which hung by one end from a table, and began to whet the implement with a degree of savage energy that was startling.
Chris had his hair cut, and his head felt easier, but the barber’s did not.