"What means this, madame? My wig—"
"I want you to go at once to see a sick woman at Mrs. Swanwick's."
"I will not. I am sent for in haste. In an hour or two I will go, or this afternoon."
"I don't believe you. You must go now—now. Who is it is ill?" People paused, astonished and laughing.
"It is Citizen Jefferson. He is ill, very ill."
"I am glad of it. He must wait—this citizen."
"But he has a chill—un diable of a chill."
"If the devil himself had a chill,—Lord, but it would refresh him!—he would have to wait."
He tried to pass by. She seized the rein of his horse. Her blood was up, and at such times few men cared to face her.
"You will go," she cried, "and at once, or—there is a tale I heard about you last year in London from Dr. Abernethy. That highwayman—you know the story. Your wig I shall keep. It is freshly powdered. Lord, man, how bald you are!"