“Your hair is not unbecoming, either,” he remarked, “––short as it is, it’s a mop of curls and very fetching.”
“Isn’t it funny?” she said. “I sheared mine for the sake of Mother Church; Ilse cut off hers for the honour of the Army! Now we’re both out of a job––with only our cropped heads to show for the experience!––and no more army and no more church––at least, as far as I am concerned!”
And she threw back hers with its thick, glossy curls and laughed, looking up at him out of her virginal brown eyes of a child.
“I’m sorry I cut my hair,” she added presently. “I look like a Bolshevik.”
“It’s growing very fast,” he said encouragingly.
“Oh, yes, it grows fast,” she nodded indifferently. “Shall we return to the table? I am rather thirsty.”
Ilse and Brisson were engaged in an animated conversation when they reseated themselves. The waiter arrived about that time with another course of poor food.
Palla, disregarding Estridge’s advice, permitted the waiter to refill her glass.
“I can’t eat that unappetising entrée,” she insisted, “and champagne, they say, is nourishing and I’m still hungry.”