"Wait a minute!" cried Vjera, with sudden anxiety, and turning her head as
though to draw away her hair from his grasp. "One minute--please--fifteen
and thirty-five are really fifty, are they not?"
The tadpole began to count on his fingers, whispering audibly.
"Yes," answered the barber. "Fifteen and thirty-five are fifty."
The tadpole desisted, having already got into mathematical difficulties in
counting from one hand over to the other.
"Then cut it off quickly, please!" said poor Vjera, settling herself in
the chair again, and giving her head to the shears.
In the silence that followed, only the soft jingle of the scissors was
heard.
"There!" exclaimed the hairdresser, holding up a hand-mirror behind her.
"I have been generous, you see. I have not cut it very short. See for
yourself."
"Thank you," said Vjera. "You are very kind." She saw nothing, indeed, but
she was satisfied, and rose quickly.
She tied up the limp parcel with the same old piece of faded ribband, and
a little colour suddenly came into her face as she pressed it to her
bosom. All at once, she lost control of herself, and with a sharp sob the
tears gushed out. She stooped a little and drew her shawl over her head to
hide her face. The tears wet her hands and the brown paper, and fell down
to the greasy marble floor of the shop.
"It will grow again very soon," said the barber, not unkindly. He
supposed, naturally enough, that she was weeping over her sacrifice.
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