"I WANT two cigars," said a well-dressed and lady-like looking person in a West End drug store. "Not too strong—there that is the box," she said, indicating a brand of bright-colored "Cabannas." The two chocolate-hued rolls of tobacco were duly wrapped up, delivered, and paid for. The lady paid for them with as much unconcern as though it were a bottle of cologne she was carrying off. "Do you have much call for cigars by ladies?" asked the reporter, who was waiting for some patent brain food. "We sell as many, either to ladies or on their order by messengers, as we do to men," answered the compounder of prescriptions from strictly pure drugs and chemicals. "What kinds do they call for, mostly?" demanded the reporter. "Mostly mild five-centers, though there is a run on tens of full flavor by old hands. Cigarettes used to go in that direction, but they color the fingers of the fair smokers too much, and they don't know enough to use 'smokers.'" "Do they buy them ostensibly for home consumption, or are they procured for 'my brother'?" "Oh, there is little attempt at concealment after the first few purchases. Excuse me," replied the pill man, as he started for a remote corner of the store, where a fair thing in sealskin was modestly waiting attention. No visit was paid to the cigar-case, but she took away a supply done up in an unsuspicious looking package. "She is a new customer, and I keep her 'brother's' box under the counter with the pills and things to save her blushes. After a while she won't mind."—Washington Post.