His wife made no reply, but, taking a blue-crossed envelope from the maid in her shaking fingers, looked round for a knife. Her gaze encountered Mr. Gribble's outstretched hand. “After you,” he said sharply. Mrs. Gribble found the knife, and, hacking tremulously at the envelope, peeped inside it and, with her gaze fastened on the window, fumbled for her pocket. She was so pale and shook so much that the words died away on her husband's lips. “It is—all right,” gasped his wife. She put her hand to her throat and, hardly able to believe in her victory, sat struggling for breath. Before her, grim and upright, her husband sat, a figure of helpless smouldering wrath. “You might lose it,” he said, at last. “I sha'n't lose it,” said his wife. To avoid further argument, she arose and went slowly upstairs. Through the doorway Mr. Gribble saw her helping herself up by the banisters, her left hand still at her throat. Then he heard her moving slowly about in the bedroom overhead. He took out his pipe and filled it mechanically, and was just holding a match to the tobacco when he paused and gazed with a puzzled air at the ceiling. “Blamed if it don't sound like somebody dancing!” he growled. STEPPING BACKWARDS Wonderful improvement,” said Mr. Jack Mills. “Show 'em to me again.” Mr. Simpson took his pipe from his mouth and, parting his lips, revealed his new teeth. “And you talk better,” said Mr. Mills, taking his glass from the counter and emptying it; “you ain't got that silly lisp you used to have. What does your missis think of 'em?” “She hasn't seen 'em yet,” said the other. “I had 'em put in at dinner-time. I ate my dinner with 'em.” Mr. Mills expressed his admiration. “If it wasn't for your white hair and whiskers you'd look thirty again,” he said, slowly. “How old are you?” “Fifty-three,” said his friend. “If it wasn't for being laughed at I've often thought of having my whiskers shaved off and my hair dyed black. People think I'm sixty.” “Or seventy,” continued Mr. Mills. “What does it matter, people laughing? You've got a splendid head of 'air, and it would dye beautiful.” Mr. Simpson shook his head and, ordering a couple of glasses of bitter, attacked his in silence. “It might be done gradual,” he said, after a long interval. “It don't do anybody good at the warehouse to look old.” “Make a clean job of it,” counselled Mr. Mills, who was very fond of a little cheap excitement. “Get it over and done with. You've got good features, and you'd look splendid clean-shaved.” Mr. Simpson smiled faintly. “Only on Wednesday the barmaid here was asking after you,” pursued Mr. Mills. Mr. Simpson smiled again. “She says to me, 'Where's Gran'pa?' she says, and when I says, haughty like, 'Who do you mean?' she says, 'Father Christmas!' If you was to tell her that you are only fifty-three, she'd laugh in your face.” “Let her laugh,” said the other, sourly.