One morning Marjorie broached something she had had on her mind for
several days.
"Old man," she said, "I can't stand it any longer. I'm going to thaw my
scissors and cut your hair.... And then you'll have to trim that beard
of yours."
"You'll have to dig out that looking-glass."
"I know," said Marjorie. She looked at him. "You'll never be a pretty
man again," she said. "But there's a sort of wild splendour.... And I
love every inch and scrap of you...."
Their eyes met. "We're a thousand deeps now below the look of things,"
said Trafford. "We'd love each other minced."
She broke into that smiling laugh of hers. "Oh! it won't come to
_that_," she said. "Trust my housekeeping!"