FIFTH EPOCH.—The neglected wig. “Good heavens! How tedious it is, to have to go with bare head every evening, and to curl one’s wig every morning!”
SIXTH EPOCH.—The wig allows certain white hairs to escape; it is put on awry and the observer perceives on the back of your neck a white line, which contrasts with the deep tints pushed back by the collar of your coat.
SEVENTH EPOCH.—Your wig is as scraggy as dog’s tooth grass; and —excuse the expression—you are making fun of your wig.
“Sir,” said one of the most powerful feminine intelligences which have condescended to enlighten me on some of the most obscure passages in my book, “what do you mean by this wig?”
“Madame,” I answered, “when a man falls into a mood of indifference with regard to his wig, he is,—he is—what your husband probably is not.”
“But my husband is not—” (she paused and thought for a moment). “He is not amiable; he is not—well, he is not—of an even temper; he is not—”
“Then, madame, he would doubtless be indifferent to his wig!”
We looked at each other, she with a well-assumed air of dignity, I with a suppressed smile.
“I see,” said I, “that we must pay special respect to the ears of the little sex, for they are the only chaste things about them.”
I assumed the attitude of a man who has something of importance to disclose, and the fair dame lowered her eyes, as if she had some reason to blush.