“Every one,” Emer explained in her clear, sweet voice to Cúchulinn, “every one who has any hair at all wears it this way.”
“It is the Connacht fashion,” said Cruscraid the Stammerer.
“It is Maeve’s fashion,” Emer corrected.
“There must be three plaits,” she continued; “two twisted round the head and caught in a brooch, and one hanging down the back. I think it is a charming fashion.”
“I think,” Conachúr smiled, “that our ladies might content themselves with our own good Ulster customs.”
“There are Ulster customs, indeed,” said Emer, “but there are no fashions. One must go to Connacht for that.”
“If it depended on the ladies,” said Laerí, “we might let the grass grow over the Black Pig’s Dyke.”
“Shoulder torques are worn smaller in Connacht just now,” Emer continued, eyeing superciliously the ornaments of a neighbour. “Just like mine,” she added complacently.
Cúchulinn laughed boisterously.
“Just like yours,” he mocked. “Why, you know well, my dove, I took that torque on the last spoil I made in Connacht.”