“It’s mother’s hat,” said Julia with emphasis and awaited developments.
“Your mother’s? Well, my dear, you have been doing yourself very well. Why—bless my soul—what have you been doing to your head?”
“I have been having my hair brushed and cared for,” said Regina, feeling that she must take her bull by the horns and grasp her nettle without delay.
“Why didn’t they put it up as it was—let me look at you. I don’t know”—and he passed his thumb down one cheek and his fingers down the other till they met at the lowest point of his chin, “I don’t know—it isn’t you, you see.”
“Don’t say you dislike it, Alfred,” said Regina, with pathetic wistfulness.
“I don’t say I dislike it, at the same time—it isn’t you,” he replied. “Put the hat on—let’s see you in it. Yes—I don’t know. It’s a pity to hide a forehead like yours with all that loose hair. I know women are all wearing it so; but at the same time, I think it is a pity.”
“I’ve got to look such a frump, Alfred,” said Regina, taking the hat off again and patting her hair into place.
“No, my dear, that you never did. You have a distinctiveness all your own. As to this new-fangled arrangement—well, if it pleases you to do it that way, you must do it that way and we must get used to it. Perhaps, in a little while, we shall like it better than as it was before.”
“But it does not meet with your unqualified approval, Alfred?” said Regina.