“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 in dismay at a bill in the window announcing that the house was to be sold. He walked up the path still looking at it, and being admitted by the trim servant was shown into the parlour, and stood in a dispirited fashion before Mrs. Smith. “Not back yet?” he inquired, gruffly. The old lady shook her head. “What--what--is that bill for?” demanded Mr. Davis, jerking his thumb towards it. “She is thinking of selling the house,” said Mrs. Smith. “I let her know you had been, and that is, the result. She won't comeback. You won't see her again.” “Where is she?” inquired Mr. Davis, frowning. Mrs. Smith shook her head again. “And it would be no use my telling you,” she said. “What she has got is her own, and the law won't let you touch a penny of it without her consent. You must have treated her badly; why did you leave her?” “Why?” repeated Mr. Davis. “Why? Why, because she hit me over the 'ead with a broom-handle.” Mrs. Smith tossed her head. “Fancy you remembering that for thirty-five years!” she said. “Fancy forgetting it!” retorted Mr. Davis. “I suppose she had a hot temper,” said the old lady. “'Ot temper?” said the other. “Yes.” He leaned forward, and holding his chilled hands over the fire stood for some time deep in thought. “I don't know what it is,” he said at last, “but there's a something about you that reminds me of her. It ain't your voice, 'cos she had a very nice voice--when she wasn't in a temper--and it ain't your face, because--” “Yes?” said Mrs. Smith, sharply. “Because it don't remind me of her.” “And yet the other day you said you recognized me at once,” said the old lady. “I thought I did,” said Mr. Davis. “One thing is, I was expecting to see her, I s'pose.” There was a long silence.