"A woman's curl of hair!" she said. "Oh, Frank, whose is that?"
Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelessly replied, as one who cloaked some feelings that the sight had stirred. "Why, yours, of course. Whose should it be? I had quite forgotten that I had it."
"What a dreadful fib, Frank!"
"I tell you I had forgotten it!" he said, loudly.
"I don't mean that—it was yellow hair."
"Nonsense."
"That's insulting me. I know it was yellow. Now whose was it? I want to know."
"Very well—I'll tell you, so make no more ado. It is the hair of a young woman I was going to marry before I knew you."
"You ought to tell me her name, then."
"I cannot do that."
"Is she married yet?"
"No."
"Is she alive?"
"Yes."
"Is she pretty?"
"Yes."
"It is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, under such an awful affliction."
"Affliction—what affliction?" he inquired, quickly.
