“No, no, please. Let me,” pleaded Dinah, hurriedly placing the scissors behind her.
“Very well, then, will you cut close?”
“But must it all be cut off?”
“Every scrap, and at once. It will relieve his poor burning head. You can save a nice curly bit. Save it all if you like.”
Dinah coloured, and darted at him a resentful look, then the sound of the scissors went on—snip, snip, as they closely sheared away the thick hair, the fall of every lock giving the operator a sharp pang.
“Ah, that’s better. Closer by the temples. The doctor you had ought to have insisted upon all that coming off at once.”
“He did,” sighed Dinah; “but I pleaded so hard for it to be left that he gave way.”
“And you nearly killed the poor fellow—because you were so proud of him, eh? But I will not reproach you. Ah, no evasion, please. Once for all I want that hair all removed, and possibly then I may think it necessary to operate with your father’s razor—that is, if you do not do your work well.”
Dinah sighed, and went on, shivering slightly as she saw how she was disfiguring the poor fellow, but steeling herself now to her task, till it was thoroughly done. Then she stood back full of remorse, and feeling that at last she had really done something which would make Clive hate her.
“Now, we can give him a chance. The cold bandages to his head will be of some service. The wind can blow upon them, and the evaporation will take away a great deal of heat from the poor fellow’s brain.”