'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 Gibbs in horror.
'Yes, Gibbs; for some years I have been a Nazarene—that is, a Nazarite, with the top
half of my head; now I am going to change about and be a Nazarite with the lower. The razor has kissed my cheeks and my chin and the fluted column of my throat for the last time.'
'You cannot mean it, sir!' said Gibbs, suspending his murderous task a moment.
'It's quite true, Gibbs.'
'Does she wish that too, sir?'
'Yes, that too.'