—Must talk. “Rather an amusing thing has happened. You know Doris, the third housemaid. Well, she is little more than a child, and hasn’t got her hair up. When she came, of course I insisted that she should put it up, which upset her terribly. Now, when she takes the afternoon off she puts it into a pigtail again. Silly little thing.”
“What’s that in your voice? You aren’t angry with her, are you? because I think it’s rather nice. I like pigtails, don’t you? Do you know that bit of Browning, Porphyrias’ Lover? But when shall I be able to see a pigtail again, that’s the point?”
“What’s that thing, John, a poem, or what?”
“He makes her lover strangle her with her own hair, done in a pigtail. I don’t know what it means, no one knows, only I am quite sure I should like to do it. Think—the soft, silken rope, and the warm, white neck, and . . .”
“Now, don’t be silly. I don’t understand.”
“But when shall I be allowed to take this off? It will be fun seeing again. I suppose he gave some idea of a date?”
“Yes, but he was not very definite, in a way he was rather vague. You see, it is a long business. Eyes are delicate things.”
Dread.
“How long?—three months? I only thought it would be one, but it can’t be helped.”
“Longer than that, I am afraid. Much longer, he said.”