"My mistake," said Mr. Davis, ruefully. "Thirty-five years is a long
time and people change a bit; I have myself. For one thing, I must say
I didn't expect to find 'er so stout."

"Stout!" repeated the other, quickly.

"Not that I mean you're too stout," said Mr. Davis, hurriedly--"for
people that like stoutness, that is. My wife used to 'ave a very good
figger."

Mr. Wotton nodded. "He used to rave about it on that des----"

"When will she be back?" inquired Mr. Davis, interrupting him.

Mrs. Smith shook her head. "I can't say," she replied, moving towards
the door. "When she's off holidaying, I never know when she'll return.
Shall I tell her you called?"

"Tell her I----certainly," said Mr. Davis, with great vehemence. "I'll
come in a week's time and see if she's back."

"She might be away for months," said the old lady, moving slowly to the
passage and opening the street door. "Good-afternoon."

She closed the door behind them and stood watching them through the glass
as they passed disconsolately into the street. Then she went back into
the parlour, and standing before the mantelpiece, looked long and
earnestly into the mirror.

Mr. Davis returned a week later--alone, and, pausing at the gate, glanced