“Richard never yet disarranged his hair, and no matter how drunk he may have been, he did not pull a curl of that colour out of his own head!” interrupted Louisa. “Moreover, it has been cut off. Anyone can see that!”
George levelled his glass at the gleaming curl. A number of emotions flitted across his rather stolid countenance. He drew a breath. “You’re quite right, Louisa,” he said. “Well, I never would have believed it! The sly dog!”
“You need not wait, Porson!” Louisa said sharply.
“Very good, my lady. But I should perhaps inform your ladyship that the under-footman found the candles burning in the library when he entered it this morning.”
“I cannot see that it signifies in the least,” replied Louisa, waving him aside.
He withdrew. George, who was holding the curl in the palm of his hand, said: “Well, I can’t call anyone to mind with hair of this colour. To be sure, there were one or two opera-dancers, but Ricky’s not at all the sort of man to want ’em to cut off their hair for him. But there’s no doubt about one thing, Louisa: this curl was a keepsake.”
“Thank you, George, I had already realized that. Yet I thought I knew all the respectable women of Richard’s acquaintance! One would say that kind of keepsake must have belonged to his salad days. I am sure he is much too unromantic now to cherish a lock of hair!”
“And he threw it away,” George said, shaking his head. “You know, it’s devilish sad, Louisa, upon my word it is! Threw it away, because he was on the eve of offering for that Brandon-iceberg!”
“Very affecting! And having thrown it away, he then ran away himself—not, you will admit, making any offer at all! And where did the shawl come from?” She picked it up as she spoke, and shook it out. “Extremely creased! Now why?”
“Another keepsake,” George said. “Crushed it in his hands, poor old Ricky—couldn’t bear the recollections it conjured up—flung it away!”