looked in this new scheme of things…. Ugh,” she shuddered with a little gesture of discomfort and distaste, “—the very sight of them made me uncomfortable—I couldn’t bear them! So all of a sudden it occurred to me how nice it would be—how much it would improve the—the—the general atmosphere of the whole house if I made them bob their hair…. So,” she concluded, beaming around at everyone with dimpled satisfaction—“that’s how I came to do it—I called them all together one morning last week—Friday, I think it was—and told them what I wanted—and then sent them all into the village to get it done.”
There was a moment’s pause while Mrs. Joel beamed at her guests with a dimpled smile of triumphant finality that seemed to say—“There! Behold my work and marvel at it! That is the way the thing was done.” Her obvious satisfaction was suddenly disturbed, however, by Mrs. Pierce, who, after staring at her in astounded silence for a moment, boomed out incredulously:
“Mother! You know you didn’t do a thing like that!”
“But—but, of course I did it, Ida,” Mrs. Joel returned in a surprised and nettled tone of voice—“That’s what I’m telling you…. What’s the matter with it?… Don’t you think the girls look nice?”
“I—think,” said Mrs. Pierce slowly, after a moment’s stunned reflection—“I—think—that—is—the—most—preposterous—the—most—highhanded—the—most— God!” she cried, and throwing her head back she fairly made the room ring with her hearty, booming, and astonished laughter: “I’ve heard of Catherine the Great and Marie Antoinette and the days of the Medicis—and the things they did—but I never thought I’d live to see the day their methods were adopted here in free America—Why! hah! hah! hah! hah! hah!” she fell back in her chair and fairly rocked with booming and incredulous laughter—“whacking the hair off those eight girls at one fell stroke because—because—” her voice choked speechlessly—“because it made you hot to look at them… because—because,” her voice rose to a rich choked scream and presently she said in an almost inaudible squeak—“because she’s had the house—redecorated,” she panted—“Why, Mother!” she cried strongly at last, her shoulders shaking, and her face still red with laughter, “—the King of Siam is not in it compared to you—you make absolute tyranny look like free democracy—hah! hah! hah! hah! hah!—Strike off their heads!” cried Mrs. Pierce, “—the very sight of them makes me perspire!” And leaning back again she surrendered herself to free, ringing, and whole-hearted laughter, in which everyone save Mrs. Joel joined. When the
