And away he strode, blithe and debonair despite the straws in his wig, leaving her to bite red underlip and frown after him until a clump of willows hid him from view. Then, coming to the niche in the haystack, she began to seek in angry haste, wholly unconscious that Sir John was watching her from his screen of leaves, keen-eyed, and with the enigmatical smile curling his grim mouth. Thereafter he proceeded with his toilet at a leisured ease.
So long was he indeed that she came thither impatiently at last, to find him seated upon grassy bank, his great periwig upon one fist, doing his best to smooth its rebellious disorder with an ivory pocket-comb of pitifully inadequate proportions.
“Are ye going to be all day?” she demanded.
“I hope not,” he sighed, tugging at a refractory tangle.
“You’ll never do it that way, fool!” she exclaimed.
“Your pardon, madam,” he answered gravely, “but I shall, if I sit here till the trump o’ doom——”
“You’re a nice gentleman’s servant!” quoth she scornfully. “You don’t even know how to use a comb——”
“I have my own method!” he retorted.
Her answer was to snatch the wig, pluck from him the comb and show him with contemptuous elaboration how it should be done, while Sir John, leaning back against a convenient tree, watched her with respectful interest.
“If I had only thought to bring a razor!” he murmured, feeling his stubbly chin.