ke tears in his voice, as he reluctantly plied his scissors upon
Hyacinth Rondel's distinguished curls.

'Nor I, Gibbs--nor I!' said Rondel sadly, relapsing into silence again,
with his head meekly bent over the white sheet spread to catch his shorn
beauty.

'To think of the times, sir, that I have dressed your head,' continued
Gibbs, whose grief bore so marked an emphasis, 'and to think that after
to-day ...'

'But you forget, my dear Gibbs, that I shall now be a more constant
customer than ever!'

'Ah, sir, but that will be different. It will be mere machine-cutting,
lawn-mowing, steam-reaping, if you understand me; there'll be no
pleasure in it, no artistic pleasure, I mean.'

'Yes, Gibbs, and you are an artist--I have often told you that.'

'Ah, sir, but I am coming to the conclusion that it is better not to be
an artist, better to be born just like every one else. In these days one
suffers too much. Why, sir, I haven't in the whole of my business six
heads like yours, and I go on cutting all the rest week in and week out,
just for the pleasure of dressing those six--and now there'll only be
five.'

* * * * *

'It looks like a winding-sheet,' mused Rondel presently, after a long
silence, broken only by the soft crunch and click of the fatal scissors,
as they feasted on the beautiful brown silk.

'It do indeed, sir,' said Gibbs, with a shudder, as another little globe
of golden brown rolled down into Rondel's lap.

'Poor brown roses!' sighed the poet, after another silence; 'they are
just like brown roses, aren't they, Gibbs?'

'They are indeed, sir!'

'Brown roses scattered over the winding-sheet of one's youth--eh,
Gibbs?'

'They are indeed, sir.'

'That's rather a pretty image, don't you think, Gibbs?'

'Indeed I do, sir!'

'Well, well, they have bloomed their last; and when Juliet's white hands
come seeking with their silver fingers, white maidens lost in the brown
enchanted forest, there will not be a rose left for her to gather.'

'Believe me, sir, I would more gladly have cut off your head than your
hair--that is, figuratively speaking,' sobbed the artist-in-hair-oils.

'Yes, my head would hardly be missed--you are quite right, Gibbs; but my
hair! What will they do without it at first nights and private views? It
was worth five shillings a week to many a poor paragraph-writer. Well, I
must try and make up for it by my beard!'

'Your beard, sir?' exclaimed