THAT afternoon about four o’clock, George Brown, haberdasher, opened the door of Madame Violette’s beauty parlor and crept inside like a fugitive from justice, or a runaway son returning to the home fireside and uncertain of his welcome.
Madame Violette happened to be in the front room, and she walked toward Brown swiftly, her face alight. She knew that Brown ran the shop on the first floor, for she had stopped in there several times with Raoul when he bought cravats, and once to make sundry purchases for herself, to be given as Christmas presents.
“This is a pleasure, Mr. Brown,” she said. “I think you never have visited my establishment before.”
“Well, I don’t drop into beauty parlors very often,” George Brown admitted. “It seems sissy to me for a man to have his nails trimmed every f
