BROWN ROSES

'Well, I never thought to see this day, sir,' said Gibbs, with something
like 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.'