What the Soldier dared not do.

“I cannot,” persisted the officer, who, having been looking forward to a morning with two of the prettiest girls in Dresden, was also feeling mad.  “I dare not be seen speaking to a hairdresser.  You must get rid of him.”

“But we can’t,” said the girl.  “We do not know enough German, and he can’t, or he won’t, understand us.  For goodness sake come and help us.  We’ll be spending the whole morning with him if you don’t.”

The German officer said he was desolate.  Steps would be taken—later in the week—the result of which would probably be to render that young hairdresser prematurely bald.  But, meanwhile, beyond skating round and round them, for which they did not even feel they wanted to thank him, the German officer could do nothing for them.  They tried being rude to the hairdresser: he mistook it for American chic.  They tried joining hands and running away from him, but they were not good skaters, and he thought they were trying to show him the cake walk.  They both fell down and hurt themselves, and it is difficult to be angry with a man, even a hairdresser, when he is doing his best to pick you up and comfort you.

The chaperon was worse than useless.  She was very old.  She had been promised her breakfast, but saw no signs of it.  She could not speak German; and remembered somewhat late in the day that two young ladies had no business to accept breakfast at the hands of German officers: and, if they did, at least they might see that they got it.  She appeared to be willing to talk about decadence of modern manners to almost any extent, but the subject of the hairdresser, and how to get rid of him, only bored her.

Their first stroke of luck occurred when the hairdresser, showing them the “dropped three,” fell down and temporarily stunned himself.  It was not kind of them, but they were desperate.  They flew for the bank just anyhow, and, scrambling over the grass, gained the restaurant.  The officer, overtaking them at the door, led them to the table that had been reserved for them, then hastened back to hunt for the chaperon.  The girls thought their trouble was over.  Had they glanced behind them their joy would have been shorter-lived than even was the case.  The hairdresser had recovered consciousness in time to see them waddling over the grass.  He thought they were running to fetch him brandy.  When the officer returned with the chaperon he found the hairdresser sitting opposite to them, explaining that he really was not hurt, and suggesting that, as they were there, perhaps they would like something to eat and drink.

The girls made one last frantic appeal to the man of buckram and pipeclay, but the etiquette of the Saxon Army was inexorable.  It transpired that he might kill the hairdresser, but nothing else: he must not speak to him—not even explain to the poor devil why it was that he was being killed.