"Those grey wigs—" faltered Madame Valière
"I have already told your friend." He rubbed the American head viciously.
Madame Dépine coloured. "But—but we are two. Is there no reduction on taking a quantity?"
"And why then? A wig is a wig. Twice a hundred francs are two hundred francs."
"One hundred francs for a wig!" said Madame Valière, paling. "I did not pay that for the one I wear."
"I well believe it, madame. A grey wig is not a brown wig."
"But you just said a wig is a wig."
The coiffeur gave angry rubs at the head, in time with his explosive phrases. "You want real hair, I presume—and to your measure—and to look natural—and convenable!" (Both old ladies shuddered at the word.) "Of course, if you want it merely for private theatricals—"
"Private theatricals!" repeated Madame Dépine, aghast.
"A comédienne's wig I can sell you for a bagatelle. That passes at a distance."