He was up early next morning, but his wife showed no signs of rising. The cupboard was still empty, and for some time he moved about hungry and undecided. Finally he mounted the stairs again, and with a view to arranging matters for the evening remonstrated with her upon her behavior and loudly announced his intention of not coming home until she was in a better frame of mind. From a disciplinary point of view the effect of the remonstrance was somewhat lost by being shouted through the closed door, and he also broke off too abruptly when Mrs. Henshaw opened it suddenly and confronted him. Fragments of the peroration reached her through the front door. Despite the fact that he left two hours earlier, the day passed but slowly, and he was in a very despondent state of mind by the time he reached Mr. Stokes’s lodging. The latter, however, had cheerfulness enough for both, and, after helping his visitor to change into fresh clothes and part his hair in the middle instead of at the side, surveyed him with grinning satisfaction. Under his directions Mr. Henshaw also darkened his eyebrows and beard with a little burnt cork until Mr. Stokes declared that his own mother wouldn’t know him. “Now, be careful,” said Mr. Stokes, as they set off. “Be bright and cheerful; be a sort o’ ladies’ man to her, same as she saw you with the one on the ’bus. Be as unlike yourself as you can, and don’t forget yourself and call her by ’er pet name.” “Pet name!” said Mr. Henshaw, indignantly. “Pet name! You’ll alter your ideas of married life when you’re caught, my lad, I can tell you!” He walked on in scornful silence, lagging farther and farther behind as they neared his house. When Mr. Stokes knocked at the door he stood modestly aside with his back against the wall of the next house. “Is George in?” inquired Mr. Stokes, carelessly, as Mrs. Henshaw opened the door. “No,” was the reply. Mr. Stokes affected to ponder; Mr. Henshaw instinctively edged away. “He ain’t in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, preparing to close the door. “I wanted to see ’im partikler,” said Mr. Stokes, slowly. “I brought a friend o’ mine, name o’ Alfred Bell, up here on purpose to see ’im.” Mrs. Henshaw, following the direction of his eyes, put her head round the door. “George!” she exclaimed, sharply. Mr. Stokes smiled. “That ain’t George,” he said, gleefully; “That’s my friend, Mr. Alfred Bell. Ain’t it a extraordinary likeness? Ain’t it wonderful? That’s why I brought ’im up; I wanted George to see ’im.” Mrs. Henshaw looked from one to the other in wrathful bewilderment. “His living image, ain’t he?” said Mr. Stokes. “This is my pal George’s missis,” he added, turning to Mr. Bell. “Good afternoon to you,” said that gentleman, huskily. “He got a bad cold coming from Ireland,” explained Mr. Stokes, “and, foolish-like, he went outside a ’bus with me the other night and made it worse.” “Oh-h!” said Mrs. Henshaw, slowly. “Indeed! Really!”