She slammed the door on his protests and, returning to the parlour, gazed fiercely into the glass on the mantelpiece. It reflected sixteen stone of honest English womanhood, a thin wisp of yellowish-grey hair, and a pair of faded eyes peering through clumsy spectacles. “Son, indeed!” she said, her lips quivering. “You wait till you come home, my lord!” Mr. Simpson, with some forebodings, returned home an hour later. To a man who loved peace and quietness the report of the indignant Mr. Mills was not of a reassuring nature. He hesitated on the doorstep for a few seconds while he fumbled for his key, and then, humming unconcernedly, hung his hat in the passage and walked into the parlour. The astonished scream of his wife warned him that Mr. Mills had by no means exaggerated. She rose from her seat and, crouching by the fireplace, regarded him with a mixture of anger and dismay. “It—it's all right, Milly,” said Mr. Simpson, with a smile that revealed a dazzling set of teeth. “Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Simpson. “How dare you call me by my Christian name. It's a good job for you my husband is not here.” “He wouldn't hurt me,” said Mr. Simpson, with an attempt at facetiousness. “He's the best friend I ever had. Why, we slept in the same cradle.” “I don't want any of your nonsense,” said Mrs. Simpson. “You get out of my house before I send for the police. How dare you come into a respectable woman's house in this fashion? Be off with you.” “Now, look here, Milly——” began Mr. Simpson. His wife drew herself up to her full height of four feet eleven. “I've had a hair-cut and a shave,” pursued her husband; “also I've had my hair restored to its natural colour. But I'm the same man, and you know it.” “I know nothing of the kind,” said his wife, doggedly. “I don't know you from Adam. I've never seen you before, and I don't want to see you again. You go away.” “I'm your husband, and my place is at home,” replied Mr. Simpson. “A man can have a shave if he likes, can't he? Where's my supper?” “Go on,” said his wife. “Keep it up. But be careful my husband don't come in and catch you, that's all.” Mr. Simpson gazed at her fixedly, and then, with an impatient exclamation, walked into the small kitchen and began to set the supper. A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, butter, and cheese made an appetizing display. Then he took a jug from the dresser and descended to the cellar. A musical trickling fell on the ear of Mrs. Simpson as she stood at the parlour door, and drew her stealthily to the cellar. The key was in the lock, and, with a sudden movement, she closed the door and locked it. A sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his discomfiture. “Now I'm off for the police,” cried his wife. “Don't be a fool,” shouted Mr. Simpson, tugging wildly at the door-handle. “Open the door.”