"It's a glorious red, Amarilly. The color the vulgar jeer at, and
artists like your friend and twin, Derry, rave over. You're what is
called 'Titian-haired,'"

"Are you makin' fun, Mr. Derry?" she asked suspiciously.

"No, Amarilly; seriously, I think it the loveliest shade of hair there
is, and now I am going to show you how you should wear it. Unbind it,
all four of those skin-tight braids."

She obeyed him, and a loosened, thick mass of hair fell below her waist.

"Glorious!" he cried fervidly. "Take that comb from the top of your head
and comb it out. There! Now part it, and catch up these strands
loosely--so. I must find a ribbon for a bow. What color would you
suggest, Amarilly?"

"Brown."

"Bravo, Amarilly. If you had said blue, I should have lost all faith in
your future upcoming. Here are two most beautiful brown bows on this
thingamajig some one gave me last Christmas, and whose claim on creation
I never discovered. Let me braid your hair loosely for two and
one-quarter inches. One bow here--another there. Look in the glass,
Amarilly. If I give you these bows will you promise me never to wear
your hair in any other fashion until you are sixteen at least? Off with
your apron! It's picturesque, but soapy and exceedingly wet. You won't
need a hat. It's only around the corner, and I want your hair to be
observed and admired."