If Phoebe's hair resembled a spring fleecy cloud gilded by the sun, buoyant in the soft warm air, that of Mehalah was like an angry thunder shower with a promise of sunshine gleaming through the rain.
'Black or gold, which do you most admire, George?' asked the saucy girl.
'That is not a fair question to put to me,' said De Witt in reply; but he put his fingers through the dark tresses of Mehalah, and raised them to his lips. Phoebe bit her tongue.
'George,' she said sharply. 'See the sun is in my hair. I am in glory. That is better than being so only in name.'
'But your glory is short-lived, Phoebe; the sun will be set in a minute, and then it is no more.'
'And hers,' she said spitefully, 'hers—you imply—endures eternally. I will go home.'
'Do not be angry, Phoebe, there cannot be thunder in such a golden cloud. There can be nothing worse than a rainbow.'
'What have you got there about your neck, George?' she asked, pacified by the compliment.
'A riband.'
'Yes, and something at the end of it—a locket containing a tuft of black horsehair.'