"My mother has gone into town," answered Percival with a swagger. "I'll settle with her. Now, Beefly, you cut off that hair."
"I will not, Percival," answered Bee emphatically. "Do wait until your mother comes back. Do, Percival; like a dear fellow."
But Master Percival raised the shears, and—snip! Off went a curl. Another and another followed; the lad watching the result of the snipping in the mirror. As the last clip sounded Bee gave a gasp at the result.
"What will your mother say?" she cried, wishing herself anywhere but in the Medulla sitting room. "Oh! what will she say?"
"It's all right," declared Percival sturdily, though it must be confessed that he was slightly dismayed himself. "At least it would be if it were even. Do cut it straight for me, Beefly."
He thrust the shears into her hand as he spoke, and turned his back to her. "Now hurry, and cut it even," he said.
"Percival, are you here?" Mrs. Medulla opened the door at this unfortunate moment, and walked in. "I have brought you something nice from town. Guess—Why!"
She stopped short at sight of the pair. Like a culprit Beatrice stood with the shears in her hand, while Percival seemed stricken dumb. The lady's gaze concentrated upon her son's clipped head. For a long instant the three stood as though incapable of speech; then the mother spoke, and Bee shivered at the severity of her tones:
"Beatrice, what are you doing with those shears? Surely you did not cut Percival's hair?"