Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown’s face as he strove to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder man; and twice his wife’s husky little cough had sounded from the window. “I s’pose you wouldn’t like to step inside and rest for five minutes?” he said, slowly. “Oh, thank you,” said the girl, gratefully; “I should like to. It—it really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far.” She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence ensued. “How strong your husband is!” said the girl, clasping her hands impulsively. “Is he?” said Mrs. Jobling. “He lifted me up as though I had been a feather,” responded the girl. “He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew where I was.” “Round your waist?” repeated Mrs. Jobling. “Where else should I put it?” broke in her husband, with sudden violence. His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the bold, dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor. “I should like to be strong,” said the latter, smiling agreeably over at Mr. Jobling. “When I was younger,” said that gratified man, “I can assure you I didn’t know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a bear.” “Fancy being hugged like that!” said the girl. “How awful!” she added, hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling. “Like a bear,” repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression he had made. “I’m pretty strong now; there ain’t many as I’m afraid of.” He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling’s arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised too, but he had the presence of mind to bend the other. “Enormous!” said the girl, “and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter you’d have made!” “He don’t want to do no prize-fighting,” said Mrs. Jobling, recovering her speech; “he’s a respectable married man.” Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. “I’m too old,” he remarked. “He’s forty-seven,” said his wife. “Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.” Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and a great partiality for the company of young people. “I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was just six months—” “You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. “I’m not so fond of telling my age to strangers.”