Fig–trees of the luscious, and olive–trees of the luxuriant;
Whereat whenever the old man shot out his hands to grasp them,
Away the wind would toss them into the shadowy cloudland.”
Od. xi. 581.
“Now, John, you are worse than ever, I do declare you are; why, you wonʼt even hold your neck straight. I try to make you look decent: I try so very hard, John; and you havenʼt even the gratitude to keep your chin up from the apron. You had much better go to a barber, and get half your hair pulled out by the roots, and the other half poisoned with a leaden comb, and then youʼll appreciate me, perhaps.”
“We read,” said John Rosedew, complacently gazing at his white locks as they tumbled and took little jumps on the apron, “that when the Argives lost Thyrea, they pledged themselves to a law and a solemn imprecation, that none of the men should encourage his hair, and none of the ladies wear gold.”
“And pray what gold do I wear? Brother John, you are so personal; you never can let me alone. I do believe you have never forgiven me my poor dear grandmotherʼs ring, and watch, and Aunt Dianaʼs brooch and locket; no, nor even my own dear motherʼs diamond ring with the sapphires round it. And perhaps you donʼt hate even my bracelet, a mere twist of gold with catʼs eyes! Oh, John, John, how can you be my brother, and show such a little mind, John?”
“Whence we may infer,” continued John, quite unruffled; for he knew that it would be worse than useless to assure Miss Doxy that he was not even aware of the existence of the things he was impeached with; “or at least we have some grounds for supposing that the Greeks, a very sensitive and highly perceptive race, did not like to have their hair cut. Compare with this another statement——”
“No, indeed I wonʼt, John. I should rather hope I would not. You canʼt hold your tongue for a moment, however solemn the occasion is. There, thatʼs the third cut youʼve got, and I wonʼt take another snip at you. But you have quoted less Greek than usual; thatʼs one comfort, at any rate, and I will put you on some gold–beaterʼs skin, for being so very good, John. Only donʼt tell Amy; she does make such a fuss about it. But there, I need not tell you, for you wonʼt know how you got them in half an hourʼs time. Now, donʼt make a fuss, John; one would think you were killed”—poor John had dared to put his hand up—“as if you cared indeed even if you had three great stripes of red all down your collar, or even upon your white neckerchief. You wouldnʼt be at all ashamed of yourself. Have you the face to say that you would, now?”
“Well, dear Doxy, I am not convinced that you are reasonable in expecting me to be ashamed of bleeding when you have been cutting me.”