“Women are a pack of samenesses,” he grumbled, “and love-affairs are damnable iterations.”
“Oh,” cried out his comrade, in a tone of plaintive protest, “I said red-haired. You can’t pretend that red-haired women are the same.”
“The same, with the addition of a little henna,” the pale young man argued wearily.
“It may surprise you to learn that I was thinking of red-haired women who are born red-haired,” his friend remarked, from an altitude.
“In that case,” said he, “I admit there is a difference—they have white eyelashes.” And he emptied his glass of green stuff. “Is all this apropos of boots?” he questioned.
The other regarded him solemnly. “It’s apropos of your immortal soul,” he answered, nodding his head. “It’s medicine for a mind diseased. The only thing that will wake you up, and put a little life and human nature in you, is a love-affair with a red-haired woman. Red in the hair means fire in the heart. It means all sorts of things. If you really wish to please me, Uncle, you’ll go and fall in love with a red-haired woman.”
The younger man, whom the elder addressed as Uncle, shrugged his shoulders, and gave a little sniff. Then he lighted a cigarette.
The elder man left the table, and went to the open window. “Heavens, what weather!” he exclaimed fervently. “The day is made of perfumed velvet. The air is a love-philtre. The whole world sings romance. And yet you—insensible monster!—you can sit there torpidly—-” But abruptly he fell silent.
His attention had been caught by something below, in the garden. He watched it for an instant from his place by the window; then he stepped forth upon the balcony, still watching. Suddenly, facing halfway round, “By my bauble, Nunky,” he called to his companion, and his voice was tense with surprised exultancy, “she’s got red hair!”
The younger man looked up with vague eyes. “Who? What?” he asked languidly.