“Go back to your courting days, then,” said Mr. Simpson, “when Mrs. Cooper wasn't Mrs. Cooper, but only wanted to be.” Mrs. Cooper shivered; so did Mr. Cooper. “And you came round to me for advice,” pursued Mr. Simpson, in reminiscent accents, “because there was another girl you wasn't sure of, and you didn't want to lose them both. Do you remember sitting with the two photographs—one on each knee—and trying to make up your mind?” “Wonderful imagination,” said Mr. Cooper, smiling in a ghastly fashion at his wife. “Hark at him!” “I am harking,” said Mrs. Cooper. “Am I Bill Simpson or am I not?” demanded Mr. Simpson. “Bill was always fond of his joke,” said Mr. Cooper, with a glance at the company that would have moved an oyster. “He was always fond of making up things. You're like him in that. What do you think, Milly?” “It's not my husband,” said Mrs. Simpson. “Tell us something about her,” said Mr. Cooper, hastily. “I daren't,” said Mr. Simpson. “Doesn't that prove I'm her husband? But I'll tell you things about your wife, if you like.” “You dare!” said Mrs. Cooper, turning crimson, as she realized what confidences might have passed between husband and wife. “If you say a word of your lies about me, I don't know what I won't do to you.” “Very well, I must go on about Bob, then—till he recognizes me,” said Mr. Simpson, patiently. “Carry your mind—” “Open the door and let him out,” shouted Mr. Cooper, turning to his sister. “How can I recognize a man through a deal door?” Mrs. Simpson, after a little hesitation, handed him the key, and the next moment her husband stepped out and stood blinking in the gas-light. “Do you recognize me?” he asked, turning to Mr. Cooper. “I do,” said that gentleman, with a ferocious growl. “I'd know you anywhere,” said Mrs. Cooper, with emphasis. “And you?” said Mr. Simpson, turning to his wife. “You're not my husband,” she said, obstinately. “Are you sure?” inquired Mr. Cooper. “Certain.” “Very good, then,” said her brother. “If he's not your husband I'm going to knock his head off for telling them lies about me.” He sprang forward and, catching Mr. Simpson by the collar, shook him violently until his head banged against the dresser. The next moment the hands of Mrs. Simpson were in the hair of Mr. Cooper. “How dare you knock my husband about!” she screamed, as Mr. Cooper let go and caught her fingers. “You've hurt him.” “Concussion, I think,” said Mr. Simpson, with great presence of mind. His wife helped him to a chair and, wetting her handkerchief at the tap, tenderly bathed the dyed head. Mr. Cooper, breathing hard, stood by watching until his wife touched him on the arm. “You come off home,” she said, in a hard voice. “You ain't wanted. Are you going to stay here all night?” “I should like to,” said Mr. Cooper, wistfully. THE THREE SISTERS