love story was in the past,
and it had come about in this way.

One day when the hairdresser was still a young man, not long after he
had first settled in Albert Street, the door of his shop opened, and a
young woman came in. Her figure was short and broad, and she was lame,
walking with a crutch. Her face and features were large and peculiarly
frank in expression; upon her head was a very large hat. When she spoke,
it was with a loud staccato voice; her words fell after one another like
hailstones in a storm, there was no breathing space between them.

'I want Mr. Saintou.'

'What may I have the pleasure of showing madame?'

'Good gracious, I told you I wanted to be shown Mr. Saintou. Are you Mr.
Saintou? None of your assistants for me; I want my hair cut.'

The hairdresser laid his hand upon his heart, as though to point out his
own identity. He bowed, and as even at that age he was very stout, the
effort of the bow caused his small eyes to shut and open themselves
again. There was nothing staccato about the manner of the hairdresser,
he had carefully cultivated that address which he supposed would be most
soothing to those who submitted themselves to his operations.

'Very well,' said the little lady, apparently satisfied with the
identification, 'I want my hair cut. It is like a sheaf of corn. It is
like a court train. It is like seven horses' manes tied together, if
they were red. It is like a comet's tail.'

It is probable that the hairdresser only took in that part of this
speech upon which he was in the habit of concentrating his attention,
and that the force of the similes which followed one another like
electric shocks escaped him altogether. He was about to show the new
customer into the ladies' room, where his staid and elderly sister was
accustomed to officiate, but she drew back with decision.

'No, not at all; I have come to have my hair cut by Mr. Saintou, and I
want to have it done in the room with the long row of chairs where the
long row of men get shaved every morning. I told my sister I should sit
there. You have no men in at this time of day, have you, Mr. Saintou?
Now I shall sit here in the middle chair, and you shall wash my hair. My
father is the baker round the corner. He makes good bread; do you wash
people's hair as well? Will you squirt water on it with that funny tube?
Will you put it in my eyes? Now, I am up on the chair. Don't put the
soap in my eyes, Mr. Saintou.'

Saintou was