George could scarcely believe that this fascinating, brilliant woman of the world was the quiet little wife he had left at home that evening. When the ball was over and the musicians had been stood off, George went up to his wife, feeling ashamed and repentant. "Molly," he said, "forgive me. I didn't know how beautiful and gay you could be in swell society. The next time our Longfellow Literary Coterie gives a fish fry at the Hook and Ladder Company Hall I'll take you along." Mrs. St. Bibbs took her husband's arm with a sweet smile. "All right, George," she said, "I just wanted you to see that this town can't put up no society shindigs that are too high up for me to tackle. I once spent two weeks in Galveston, and I generally catch on to what's proper as quick as anybody." At present there are no two society people in town more sought after and admired than George St. Bibbs and his accomplished wife. (_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, May 18, 1896.) The Barber Talks The Post Man slid into the chair with an apologetic manner, for the barber's gaze was superior and scornful. He was so devilish, cool and selfpossessed, and held the public in such infinite contempt. The Post Man's hair had been cut close with the clippers on the day before. "Haircut?" asked the barber in a quiet but thoroughly dangerous tone. "Shave," said the Post Man. The barber raised his eyebrows, gave his victim a look of deep disdain, and hurled the chair with a loud rattle and crash back to a reclining position. Then he seized a mug and brush and, after bestowing upon the Post Man a look of undying contumely, turned with a sneer to the water faucet. Thence he returned, enveloped the passive victim in a voluminous cloth, and with a pitiless hand daubed a great brushful of sweetish tasting lather across his mouth. Then he began to talk. "Ever been in Seattle, Washington Territory?" he asked. "Blub-a-lub-blub," said the Post Man, struggling against the soap, and then he shook his head feebly. "Neither have I," said the barber, "but I have a brother named Bill who runs an orange orchard nine miles from St. John, Fla. That's only a split hair on your neck; it's growing the wrong way. They are caused by shaving the neck in the wrong direction. Sometimes whiskey will make them do that way. Whisky is a terrible thing. Do you drink it?" The Post Man only had one eye of all his features uncovered by lather and he tried to throw an appealing expression implying negation into this optic, but the barber was too quick for him and filled the eye with soap by a dextrous flap of his brush.