"Why, Peregrine," sighed she reproachfully, "you've had all your curls
cut off!"

"To the devil with my curls! Come, let us go!" And snatching my hat I
clapped it on and led the way across the yard and, heedless of the
spectators who gaped and nudged each other, we got into the cart, paid
our dues, and drove out into the High Street, nor did we exchange a
word until we had left the town behind us; then:

"Why are you so frightful angry, Peregrine?"

"Ah, why?" I groaned. "What madness was it that would have driven me
to murder? Had you but thrown me your knife I should have stabbed
him--killed him where he stood--and loved the doing of it. Oh,
horrible!"

"No, wonderful!" sighed she, laying her hand on my drooping shoulder.
"I--I liked you for it! You weren't afraid this time. Did he hurt
you?"

"Not much."

"And he tore your fine new coat--the beast! Never mind, I'll mend it
for you to-night, if you like."

"I can buy another," said I gloomily.

"No, that would be wicked, wasteful extravagance, Peregrine, and I can
mend it beautifully."