“It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur’s disposition.”
Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing, till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient’s beard, till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back and looked at him in admiration.
“But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess,” he exclaimed. “Does he accept my assistance?”
Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such occasions, and then said bluntly—
“Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot accept your assistance. Good mom—Ah, Joby, old fellow.”
He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed his head against his master’s leg.
“Why, Joby,” exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, “where is your collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I do!—If that note is found!—Oh, my poor darling!” he muttered, and he hurried from the place.