Eve Malory Carew tilted her sweet pretty chin.
“It’s my hair,” she said.
“Exactly,” said Jeremy Broke. “That’s why to cut it would be so—so
blasphemous. If it was anybody else’s, it’d be their funeral. But your
hair’s a sort of national treasure, like Ann Hathaway’s Cottage or
Arthur’s Seat—I mean, Leith Hill. It’s not really yours to cut.”
“It’s mine to brush,” said Eve: “and fix and do generally. If you had a
beard——”
“That’s an idea,” said Broke. “If you cut your hair, I’ll grow a
blinkin’ beard: a long, spade-shaped one—by way of protest.”
Eve laughed delightedly.
“But how,” she gurgled, “how would that affect me? If we kissed when we
met, or always dined _tête-à-tête_. . . .”
“I trust,” said Jeremy stiffly, “that the indecent spectacle of an old
friend gone wrong would twist the tail of your conscience. Besides, you
wouldn’t like it when I accosted you in Bond Street, beard in hand.”
Miss Carew shuddered.