“I’ve never seen her to know who she was. I suppose I’ve passed her on the streets and at the theaters. Is she cordial and pleasant, or does she give herself airs because she’s Bill Cannon’s daughter?”
Dominick moved his feet under the table. It was difficult for him to answer Berny’s questions politely.
“She doesn’t give herself the least airs. She’s perfectly simple and natural and kind.”
“That’s just what I’ve heard,” his wife said, giving her head an agreeing wag. “They say she’s just as easy and unassuming as can be. Did you think she was pretty when you saw her close to?”
“Really, Berny, I don’t know,” answered the victim in a tone of goaded patience. “She looks just the same close to as she does at a distance. I don’t notice people’s looks much. Yes, I suppose she’s pretty.”
“She has blonde hair,” said Berny, leaning forward over her plate in the eagerness of her interest. “Did it look to you as if it was bleached?”
He raised his eyes, and his wife encountered an unexpected look of anger in them. She shrank a little, being totally unprepared for it.
“How should I know whether her hair was bleached or not?” he said sharply. “That’s a very silly question.”
Berny was quite taken aback.
“I don’t see that it is,” she said with unusual and somewhat stammering mildness. “Most blonde-haired women, even if they haven’t bleached their hair, have had it ‘restored.’”