Together they unfastened most of the connections, and a growing fringe of long remarkable curls marked Mrs. Condon's pain-drawn and dabbled face. Linda sobbed uncontrollably; but perhaps, after all, nothing frightful had happened. Her poor mother! Then fear again tightened about her heart at the perturbed expression that overtook the hair-dresser. He was trying in vain to remove one of the caps. She caught enigmatic words--“the borax, crystallized ... solid. It would take a plumber ... have to go.” The connection was immovable. Even in her suffering Mrs. Condon implored M. Joseph to save her hair. Nothing, however, could be done; he admitted it with pale lips. The thing might be chiseled off; in the end he tried to force a release and the strand, with a renewal of Mrs. Condon's agony--now, in the interest of her appearance, heroically withstood--snapped short in the container. Rapidly recovering her vigor, she launched on a tirade against M. Joseph and his permanent waving establishment--Linda had never before heard her mother talk in such a loud brutal manner, nor use such heated unpleasant words, and the girl was flooded with a wretched shame. Still another lock, it was revealed, had been ruined, and crumbled to mere dust in its owner's fingers. “The law will provide for you,” she promised. “Your hair was dyed,” the proprietor returned vindictively. “The girl who washed it will testify. Every one is warned against the permanent if their hair has been colored. So it was at your own risk.” “My head's never been touched with dye,” Mrs. Condon shrilly answered. “You lying little ape. And well does that young woman know it. She complimented me herself on a true blonde.” The girl had, too, right before Linda. “You ought to be thrashed out of the city.” “Your money will be given back to you,” M. Joseph told her. Outside they found a taxi, and sped back to their hotel. Above, Mrs. Condon removed her hat; and, before the uncompromising mirror, studied her wrecked hair--a frizzled vacancy was directly over her left brow--and haggard face. When she finally turned to Linda, her manner, her words, were solemn. “I'm middle-aged,” she said. A dreary silence enveloped them sitting in the dark reception-room while Mrs. Condon restlessly shredded unlighted cigarettes on the floor. She had made no effort to repair the damages to her appearance, and when the telephone bell sharply sounded, she reached out in a slovenly negligence of manner. Linda could hear a blurred articulation and her mother answering listlessly. The latter at last said: “Very well, at seven then; you'll stop for us.” She hung up the receiver, stared blankly at Linda, and then went off into a harsh mirth. “Oh, my God!” she cried; “the old ladies' home!” XI