* * * * *

'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.