"Philip, that is ungallant, and—and hateful!"
He laughed.
"Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?"
"Something I meant to burn," she murmured.
"But did not?"
"No—I could not." She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. "See for yourself, Philip."
He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over.
"Yours till death, Philip," he read. "Cleone, my love."
She buried her face on his shoulder.
"Your—hair—your poor hair!" she said.