Mamma had told me over and over again that Morrel had assured her that nothing could be done with my hair if I refused to have it “tinted”—which I always had refused, and always should refuse to permit. He had as good as hinted that, from his point of view, its colour was an atrocity, an outrage! Now he had the assurance to tell me, to my face, that he thought it exquisite. And he was not to be put down either.
“I, of all men in England, should know what I am saying on a subject on which I, among all my compeers, am best qualified to speak. As an artist there is no one living who is worthy to hold a comb with me. It were false modesty to pretend the contrary. As a lad I was a lightning shaver; I could remove a stubborn beard with an ease which was a rapture to its wearer. I was scarcely out of my apprenticeship when, on two occasions, I won first prizes in the National Competition in Artistic Hairdressing. I should have undoubtedly won a third, if for originality alone—the originality of my ideas has always been admitted—had not a cabal—all leaders of art become, sooner or later, the victims of a cabal—had not a cabal, I say, actuated by motives on which I will not enlarge, bestowed my prize upon a mere pretender. The desert they could not alienate. It was notorious.”
“This is very interesting, Mr Morrel; but would you mind giving me my sister’s fringe-nets?”
“One moment, Miss Norah, if you please. You continue to regard me with a scorn which blights. An artist’s is a sensitive soul. I implore you not to flash the arrows of your disdain in the tender target of my heart!”
“I shall tell mamma, Mr Morrel, if you talk to me like that. Will you give me my sister’s fringe-nets?”
“I will; certainly I will. After all, I am a man of business. Let me not forget it, even at such a moment as this. But, at the same time, let me prove to you that I am not only commercial. Let me entreat your personal acceptance of some trifle in evidence. For instance, this handglass, in its way a gem. Held at the proper angle it will give you a view of your back hair, the clarity of which will surprise you.”
“Thank you, Mr Morrel; but I don’t want a handglass.”
“Then this manicure set, mounted in gold. Its constant use might embellish even your hands—if it be possible to paint the lily.”
It made me so cross to hear him, when, all the while, he probably knew that it is only with anguish that I can cram my hands into six-and-threequarters.
“I want nothing except my sister’s fringe-nets. Will you, or will you not, give them to me?”