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“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.

Then—

“Seriously, Jeremy, why shouldn’t I have it off? Listen. First, it would suit me. I went to see Sali to-day, and he said it’d look immense. It isn’t as if it were straight. It’s naturally curly, and I’d have it really well cut. Then, I go through such hell—hell, morning and night. I wish you could see it down. Then perhaps you’d realize what I mean.”

“I have,” said Jeremy Broke. “The night of the Lyvedens’ ball.”

“Well, how would you like to have to cope with it twice a day?”

Jeremy inclined his head.

“I cannot imagine a greater privilege.”

Eve smiled very charmingly.

“Let’s drop hypothesis,” she said, “and come back to facts. I’ve given you three good reasons for having it cut. Except that it’s a national treasure, of which, I assume, I am the luckless trustee, can you give me one single reason why it should be preserved?”