“Is that all that’s wrong with your face?” whispered the voice.
“My hair is red,” said Jac.
“Like paint,” said the voice.
“There’s no help?”
“None!”
To escape from this merciless dialogue, Jac went back to her post of vantage. The square shoulders of Maurie Gordon were just disappearing through the outer door. All the others were gone, with the exception of her father, her brother Harry, and the man of many whiskers. The last was hardly to be considered as a human being. She felt practically alone with her family, so she entered the dining-room and sat on the edge of the table swinging her feet.
“Harry,” she said, “d’you see anything the matter with the way I fix my hair?” Her brother glanced at her with unseeing eyes. The man of many whiskers stopped stirring his coffee and glanced up with the keen twinkle which Jac had seen before. She turned her shoulder upon him.
“Throw me your tobacco, pa,” said Harry.
“Did you hear me ask you a question?” said Jac fiercely.
Harry rolled his cigarette before he answered.