She drew from her muff a copy of our last week's issue, with my article on hydrogen gas scored in pencil, and flung it before his eyes.

Our chief took it and read it through.
"He was 'Balloonist' ?" queried the chief.
"He was 'Balloonist,'" admitted the lady, "the poor innocent child, and now look at him!" "Maybe it'll grow again," suggested our chief.
"Maybe it will," retorted the lady, her key continuing to rise, "and maybe it won't.

What I want to know is what you are going to do for him." Our chief suggested a hair wash.

I thought at first she was going to fly at him; but for the moment she confined herself to words.

It appears she was not thinking of a hair wash, but of compensation.