"If I were in your place," she said, "I think--that, perhaps--only perhaps, you know--I would not wear--my hair--_quite_ so low down--over my forehead." Octavia sprang from her seat, and ran to the pier-glass over the mantle. She glanced at the reflection of her own startled, pretty face, and then, putting her hand up to the soft blonde "bang" which met her brows, turned to Lucia. "Isn't it becoming?" she asked breathlessly. "Oh, yes!" Lucia answered. "Very." Octavia started. "Then, why wouldn't you wear it?" she cried. "What do you mean?" Lucia felt her position truly a delicate one. She locked her hands, and braced herself; but she blushed vividly. "It may sound rather silly when I tell you why, Octavia," she said; "but I really do think it is a sort of reason. You know, in those absurd pictures of actresses, bangs always seem to be the principal feature. I saw some in the shop-windows when I went to Harriford with grandmamma. And they were such dreadful women,--some of them,--and had so very few clothes on, that I can't help thinking I shouldn't like to look like them, and"-- "Does it make me look like them?" "Oh, very little!" answered Lucia; "very little indeed, of course; but"-- "But it's the same thing after all," put in Octavia. "That's what you mean." "It is so very little," faltered Lucia, "that--that perhaps it isn't a reason." Octavia looked at herself in the glass again. "It isn't a very good reason," she remarked, "but I suppose it will do." She paused, and looked Lucia in the face. "I don't think that's a little thing," she said. "To be told you look like an _opéra bouffe_ actress." "I did not mean to say so," cried Lucia, filled with the most poignant distress. "I beg your pardon, indeed--I--oh, dear! I was afraid you wouldn't like it. I felt that it was taking a great liberty." "I don't like it," answered Octavia; "but that can't be helped. I didn't exactly suppose I should. But I wasn't going to say any thing about _your_ hair when _I_ began," glancing at poor Lucia's coiffure, "though I suppose I might." "You might say a thousand things about it!" cried Lucia piteously. "I know that mine is not only in bad taste, but it is ugly and unbecoming." "Yes," said Octavia cruelly, "it is." "And yours is neither the one nor the other," protested Lucia. "You know I told you it was pretty, Octavia." Octavia walked over to the table, upon which stood Miss Belinda's work-basket, and took therefrom a small and gleaming pair of scissors, returning to the mantle-glass with them. "How short shall I cut it?" she demanded. "Oh!" exclaimed Lucia, "don't, don't!" For answer, Octavia raised the scissors, and gave a snip. It was a savage snip, and half the length and width of her love-locks fell on the mantle; then she gave another snip, and the other half fell. Lucia scarcely dared to breathe.