“Oh, it’s a pity!” she cried. “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men are not worth the sacrifice. I hope it will grow again, for, if not, the Philistines be upon thee, Samson. Your dearest friend would n ‘t know you now.”
Armstrong smiled ruefully and passed his hand in anxious doubt over his cropped head.
“I suppose it will grow again, unless my dearest friend refuses to acknowledge me with this curtailment, when I shall become bald through grief at her defection.”
“I make no promises, if you mean me. I shall very likely reconsider. You are never the man who cast a glamour over me at Oxford and elsewhere. I fear I am no true Parliamentarian after all, but I shall not come to a decision until I see you in the daylight. Perhaps the cap will be an improvement, but I doubt it.”
He squeezed on the cap, which was still too small.
“By the bones of my ancestors, it will need Peter, the blacksmith of Gilnockie, to get this off again!”
“That is worse and worse,” urged his tormentor. “I cannot bear the sight any longer, or it will drive sleep away from me. Good night, my poor, shorn Samson,”—and she was off before he could spring up and intercept her.