“Irene, Irene, what has happened? Half your head is gone! Put up your hand and see.”
Irene sprang to her feet, put her hand to her head, and realized her loss, while like a flash came the thought, “Did he see it? Did he pull it off? Does he know?”
“Oh, heavens!” she said, sinking back to her seat. “I’ve lost my beautiful braid of hair, for which I gave so much. I must look like a guy. Do you think he saw it? Mr. Travers, I mean. I don’t care for Tom! Put on my hat, quick, before they come.”
She seemed in great distress, while Rena tried to comfort her, saying: “He must have pulled it off, but I would not care.”
“I think you look better without it, and at least two inches shorter.”
Irene was proud of her height and proud of her crown, and that was gone—where, she could not guess, but she hoped anywhere so that Reginald did not see it, though that was unlikely. She was a good deal upset and very nervous, and had intended to play the rôle of an invalid in order to have him go home with her, but she changed her mind, and when he appeared with Tom, he found her as erect as ever, declaring herself none the worse for her fright, and thanking him very graciously for coming to her aid, and saying she was beginning to see stars when he grasped her.
“You had a loud call, that’s a fact. Didn’t you lose your head, nor anything?” Tom asked, with a twinkle in his eyes which made Irene suspect at once.
“The wretch!” she thought. “I believe he knows something about it.” Then, with her ready tact, she replied, “I didn’t lose my head, but I did a switch which I sometimes wear. It was made from my hair cut when I had fever and it began to come out. Did you see it? It does not matter, though, for I only cared for it because it was a part of myself.”
Rena had never heard of the fever and looked astonished, while Tom whistled softly and turned away to keep from laughing. Reginald, however, felt relieved. In his ignorance of a lady’s toilet anything false struck him unpleasantly. He had heard of powder and paint and false hair, but had always associated them with actresses and second class people, and never with people like Irene, who might, perhaps, be his wife. This case, however, was different. The lost braid was a part of Irene. It had once grown on her head and not on that of some frowsy foreigner. He could forgive the falseness, especially as Irene had been so frank about it, but inwardly he was glad that the thing was riding the waves of the Atlantic. He was very attentive and insisted upon going home with her, and made her take his arm, as he was sure she must feel weak and the road was not very smooth, and he was so kind and thoughtful that Irene would have felt repaid for her fright, if it were not for the loss of her hair and wishing to know where it was. That troubled her, and when they reached the house and Reginald stepped into the garden to see a species of hibiscus just in blossom, of which Mrs. Parks was very proud, she turned to Tom and said:
“Where is my hair? I am sure you know by your looks. Is it in your pocket?”