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“That’s it!” Laurence exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Tharkay, reclining on the chaise-lounge, chanced a glance over his book.
“I find the day has barely begun and you are already aggravated, Will,” he said, with only the merest suggestion of a smirk. “Whatever is the matter?”
Laurence turned from the mirror, almost rounding on him. “My hair,” he said, already beginning to wilt in the face of Tharkay’s amusement. “It- it has grown too long. It’s a nightmare.”
Tharkay had to raise the book momentarily and pretend to cough. “I- really,” he managed, not quite able to regain his composure. Laurence was not a vain man – indeed, it had somehow completely passed him by that he was beautiful – which made his sudden outburst about his appearance all the funnier. Laurence drooped a little more.
“I should have known you would laugh,” he said ruefully, smiling a little himself. “I suppose I am being unnecessarily proud-”
“Oh, Will,” Tharkay snorted at him. “Not in the least. You are allowed to care about your hair – although I can’t say I follow why you are so opposed to it. I think it lends you an air of roguishness.”
“I think the word you are looking for is rakish, my dear. And I do not wish to look like a rake.”
“Of course not,” Tharkay agreed, poker-faced. “You are far too bent.”
He was also far too good a shot. Tharkay only just managed to evade the comb.