"Is it fifteen marks that you want?" asked the man.
"Fifteen--yes--I must have fifteen," repeated Vjera in dull tones.
"I will give it to you for your own hair," said the barber with a short
laugh.
"For my own?" cried Vjera, suddenly turning round. It had never occurred
to her that her own tress could be worth anything. "For my own?" she
repeated as though not believing her ears.
"Yes--let me see," said the man. "Turn your head again, please. Let me
see. Yes, yes, it is good hair of the kind, though it has not the gold
lights in it that the other had. But, to oblige you, I will give you
fifteen for it."
"But I must have the money now," said Vjera, suspiciously. "You must give
me the money now, to take with me. I cannot wait."
The barber smiled, and produced a gold piece and five silver ones.
"You may hold the money in your hand," he said, offering it to her, "while
you sit down and I do the work."
Vjera clutched the coins fiercely and placed herself in the big chair
before the mirror. She could see in the glass that her eyes were on fire.
The barber loosened a screw in the back of the seat and removed the block
with the cushion, handing it to his assistant.
"The scissors, and a comb, Anton," he said briskly, lifting at the same
time the heavy tress and judging its weight. The reflection of the steel
flashed in the mirror, as the artist quickly opened and shut the scissors,
with that peculiar shuffling jingle which only barbers can produce.
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