"What did you do?" insisted the stern, crisp, un-western voice. When
Cosme was angry he reverted rapidly to type.
"Why," drawled Miss Blake, "I crept up when she was drying her hair and I cut it off." She laughed loudly at his fierce start.
"Cut off her hair! What right—?"
"No right at all, my friend, but common sense. What's the good of all that fluffy stuff hanging about and taking hours of her time to brush and wash and what-not. Besides"—she shot a look at him—"it's part of the cure."
"By the Lord," said Cosme, "I'd like you to explain."
The woman crossed her legs calmly. She was still indulgently amused.
"Don't lose your head, young man," she advised. "Better smoke."
After an instant Cosme rolled and lighted a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. His anger had settled to a sort of patient contempt.
"I've put her into breeches, too," said Miss Blake.
"What the devil! What do you mean? She has a will of her own, hasn't she?"