And stone-eyed fossils, robed in flowers,
From sea of spice to frozen frith,
Shall teach alone.
A Glimpse of the Green Isle. I.
“What the lady wants, sir, is hair,” said Edward.
“Hair!” I repeated scornfully, at the same time glancing at the wealth of dark-brown hair which fell dishevelled over the shoulders of the Lady from Idaho. “Hair!”
It was evident that no comb had touched that wonderful chevelure for several days.
“I shall never be able to comb it out again,” said the Lady from Idaho in a weak, despairing voice. She lay on a sofa in a state-room on board the transatlantic steamer Lima, from New York to Liverpool, calling at Queenstown. She had been terribly sea-sick. During seven days she had not eaten enough to keep a buffalo-gnat alive.
“I don't mean ‘air,’ sir,” said Edward, raising his nose to an altitude of 45°, with the lofty dignity of your true English waiter. “I means hair—wentilation.”