An arm-chair had been placed near the bed, obviously for his reception, and after a moment's hesitation he took it. The girl did not speak, but continued to look at him unflinchingly. Cyril fancied she regarded him with something of the unquestioning reverence a small child might have for a beloved parent. His eyes sank before hers. Never had he felt so unworthy, so positively guilty. He racked his brains for something to say, but the doctor's restrictions seemed to bar every topic which suggested itself to him. If he only knew who she was! He glanced at her furtively. In the dim light of the shaded lamp he had not noticed that what he had supposed was her hair, was in reality a piece of black lace bound turbanwise about her head. "What are you wearing that bandage for?" he inquired eagerly. "Was your head hurt--my dear?" he added diffidently. "No--I--I hope you won't be angry--nurse said you would--but I couldn't help it. I really had to cut it off." "Cut what off?" "My hair." She hung her head as a naughty child might have done. "You cut off your hair? But why?" His voice sounded suddenly harsh. Strange that her first act had been to destroy one of the few things by which she could be identified. Was she as innocent as she seemed? Had she fooled them all, even the doctor? This amnesia, or whatever it was called, was it real, was it assumed? He wondered. "Oh, husband, I know it was wrong; but when I woke up and couldn't remember anything, I was so frightened, and then nurse brought me a looking-glass and the face I saw was so strange! Oh, it was so lonely without even myself! And then nurse said it was my hair. She said it sometimes happened when people have had a great shock or been very ill and so--I made her cut it off. She didn't want to--it wasn't her fault--I made her do it." "But what had happened to your hair?" "It had turned quite white, most of it." The girl shuddered. "Oh, it was horrid! I am sure you would not have liked it." Cyril, looking into her limpid eyes, felt his sudden suspicions unworthy of him. "You must grow a nice new crop of black curls, if you want to appease me," he answered. "Oh, do you like black hair?" Her disappointment was obvious. "Yes, don't you? Your hair was black before your illness." "I know it was--but I hate it! At all events, as long as I must wear a wig, I should like to have a nice yellow one; nurse tells me I can get them quite easily." "Dear me! But I don't think a wig nice at all." "Don't you?" Her mouth drooped at the corners. She seemed on the verge of tears. What an extraordinary child! he thought. But she mustn't cry--anything rather than that. "My dear, if you want a wig, you shall have one immediately. Tell your nurse to send to the nearest hairdresser for an assortment from which you can make your choice."