ight of
honesty and courage which is even more to be desired than physical
beauty. I rather imagine that little children on the street and grizzled
Supreme Court justices out for a walk turn as I pass and say "A fine
face. Plain, but fine."

Then I go in to buy a hat. The mirror in the hat store is triplicate, so
that you see yourself not only head-on but from each side. The
appearance that I present to myself in this mirror is that of three
police-department photographs showing all possible approaches to the
face of Harry DuChamps, alias Harry Duval, alias Harry Duffy, wanted in
Rochester for the murder of Nettie Lubitch, age 5. All that is missing
is the longitudinal scar across the right cheek.

I have never seen a meaner face than mine is in the hat-store mirror. I
could stand its not being handsome. I could even stand looking weak in
an attractive, man-about-town sort of way. But in the right hand mirror
there confronts me a hang-dog face, the face of a yellow craven, while
at the left leers an even more repulsive type, sensual and cruel.

Furthermore, even though I have had a hair-cut that very day, there is
an unkempt fringe showing over my collar in back and the collar itself,
(a Wimpet, 14-1/2, which looked so well on the young man in the
car-card) seems to be something that would be worn by a Maine guide when
he goes into Portland for the day. My suit needs pressing and there is
a general air of its having been given to me, with ten dollars, by the
State on my departure from Sing Sing the day before.

But for an unfavorable full-length view, nothing can compare with the
one that I get of myself as I pass the shoe-store on the corner. They
have a mirror in the window, so set that it catches the reflection of
people as they step up on the curb. When there are other forms in the
picture it is not always easy to identify yourself at first, especially
at a distance, and every morning on my way to work, unless I
deliberately avert my face, I am mortified to discover that the
unpleasant-looking man, with the rather effeminate, swinging gait, whom
I see mincing along through the crowd, is none other than myself.

[Illustration: I am mortified to discover that the unpleasant looking
man is none other than myself.]

The only good mirror in the list is the one in the elevator of my
clothing-store. There is a subdued light in the car, a sort of golden
glow which softens and idealizes, and the mirror shows only a two