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and, returning to the office, en
countered Peterson, who grinned
maliciously.
The final blow was the matter
of the haircut. Ralph had in
cautiously remarked that his hair
was growing long.
"Ralph, dearest," said Cynthia,
perching herself upon the arm of
his chair, "what are our lives go
ing to be?"
"To be?" repeated Ralph.
"Why lives, I suppose."
"Yes, I know," answered Cyn
thia, nodding. "But are they go
ing to be noble lives, Ralph, full
of beauty and inspiration, and
filled with sublimity, or are they
going to be just common business
lives?"
"It's something about my hair !"
exclaimed Ralph desperately. "Go
on, dearest."
"Don't have it cut," said Cyn
thia. "I don't want you to look
like a common business man
without poetry or individuality.
I want you to look like an artist.
There, the secret's out. Ralph,
promise me you'll let it curl over
your forehead like like Byron."
Ralph Blair drew himself up
firmly.
"Now, Cynthia," he said, "let
us understand one another. I am
not going to be a poet. I am go
ing to be a telephone man. And
I am not going to look like Byron.
Byron was a slob and spent the
best years of his life among
Greeks and Dagoes. They
wouldn't have him in his own
country. I am going to have my
hair cropped; and I am going to
jvear a black tie until I get tired,
and then I shall switch off to any
color I choose. Now, dear, I
don't want to be harsh, but you
must choose between Byron and
me."
"Brute!" sobbed Cynthia, and
buried her face in her hands.
Overcome with remorse he gent-
ly withdrew them. Cynthia was '
laughing.
"Cynthia!" he exclaimed in
dignantly. "Oh, I'm so glad, dearest," she
exclaimed, throwing her arms
round his neck. "It was all that
horrid Mr. Peterson. He said
you'd told him that you would
die for me, but that he knew you
wouldn't have the grit to live
your own life if I tried to make
you different, and he dared me to
try: And I was right! I hated
the tie I gave you, and I thought
you were the bravest person on
earth to wear it; and I wouldn't
have you with long, greasy curls
for all the world. Where are you
going, Ralph?"
"Just out to kill Peterson," he
answered.
"No, don't do that. Poor Mr.
Peterson! You see, he did think
quite a good deal about me once,
dearest."
LEMON BUTTER
Boil half a pound of brown
sugar with a tablespoonful of g
vinegar and a quarter of a pint of
water for ten minutes. Then add
a heaping tablespoon of butter.
Boil again until the candy be
comes brittle when dropped into
cold water. Take it from the fire.
Add juice of a lemon and pour in-
( to a shallow, wejl-greased pan,
mammammmmmmmm
