“A trifle, yes. Possibly a trifle. When last heard from, laddie, you must recollect, you were speaking of the lady as your soul-mate, and at least once—if I remember rightly—you alluded to her as your little dusky-haired lamb.”
A sharp howl escaped Bill.
“Don’t!” A strong shudder convulsed his frame. “Don’t remind me of it!”
“There’s been a species of slump, then, in dusky-haired lambs?”
“How,” demanded Bill, savagely, “can a girl be a dusky-haired lamb when her hair’s bright scarlet?”
“Dashed difficult!” admitted Archie.
“I suppose Lucille told you about that?”
“She did touch on it. Lightly, as it were. With a sort of gossamer touch, so to speak.”
Bill threw off the last fragments of reserve.
“Archie, I’m in the devil of a fix. I don’t know why it was, but directly I saw her—things seemed so different over in England—I mean.” He swallowed ice-water in gulps. “I suppose it was seeing her with Lucille. Old Lu is such a thoroughbred. Seemed to kind of show her up. Like seeing imitation pearls by the side of real pearls. And that crimson hair! It sort of put the lid on it.” Bill brooded morosely. “It ought to be a criminal offence for women to dye their hair. Especially red. What the devil do women do that sort of thing for?”