They were in Miss Anne's bedroom, where there was a riot of lovely color—burnt orange and dull old blues, and Miss Anne in a dressing-gown that was like a tangerine. Hildegarde, wrapped in a Chinese robe of silver-embroidered satin, which her hostess had lent her, felt impressively elegant as she sat curled up on the couch, one of the burnt-orange cushions behind her.
Miss Anne, looking at her meditatively, remarked, "Of course, we'll have to bob your hair."
"Oh, no!"
Hildegarde's shining braids hung heavily over her shoulders and down the length of the silver-satin gown. They were curled at the ends and were a lovely, living part of her. She shivered a little.
"It would be like cutting off an arm, or a leg."
"My dear, you mustn't let yourself have emotions. They aren't fashionable. Nobody suffers any more, or has rapturous moments. We are all at a dead level of insensibility."
"But—to cut these off—" Hildegarde had an end of a braid in each hand, holding them out as if they offered mute evidence of her argument. "Why, they are me—myself—as much as my eyes or nose—"
"But, my dear child, we won't be able to get any hats that fit, and there's nothing to be done in these days with a lot of hair like that. You'll look as if you came out of the Ark."
"Shall I?" Hildegarde's tone was anxious. She got down from the couch and surveyed herself in a long mirror. "I could twist it around my head—flat."
