“But my hair isn’t golden at all, Louis,” said Elizabeth.
Louis frowned.
“Yes, it is,” he said, “it’s gold without the dross—gold spiritualised. And you ought to know better than to pretend. You know as well as I do that your hair is a thing of beauty. The real joy for ever sort. It’s no credit to you. You didn’t make it. And you ought to be properly grateful for being allowed to walk about with a real live halo. Why should you pretend? If it wasn’t pretence, you wouldn’t take so much trouble about doing it. You’d just twist it up on a single hairpin.”
“It wouldn’t stay up,” said Elizabeth.
“I wish it wouldn’t. Oh, Lizabeth, won’t you let it down just for once?”
“No, I won’t,” said Elizabeth, with pleasant firmness.
Louis fell into a gloom. His brown eyes darkened.
“I don’t see why,” he said; and Elizabeth laughed at him.
“Oh, Louis, will you ever grow up?”
Louis assumed an air of dignity. “My last book,” he said, “was not only very well reviewed by competent and appreciative persons, but I would have you to know that it also brought me in quite a large and solid cheque. And my poems have had what is known as a succès d’estime, which means that you and your publisher lose money, but the critics say nice things. These facts, my dear madam, all point to my having emerged from the nursery.”