Father was sitting on the window-seat polishing his shoes with the curtain. When he got up he was covered with Heloïse’s white hairs from the seat-pad. “Is there no place a man in a dark suit can sit in this house?” he shouted as he went to the hall for the clothes-brush. “Not unless we dye Hel black,” I said. I brushed him; but what with the brush having lost most of its bristles, his suit having lost most of its nap and Heloïse having lost more hairs than seemed believable, the result was poor.
