Mr. Henry Brown was a man of forty, an age that is supposed to be the prime of life, though most of us would prefer to be ten years younger. At forty one has shed most illusions, but at least there is the consolation of having arrived at a workable philosophy. For some of us this philosophy may mean simple acquiescence; for others an attitude of pleased contemplation, like a yokel smoking his pipe, leaning on the gate of a summer evening. Those of us who are married and without the philosophy of our own are fortunate in having one--if not several--provided by a wife. And her philosophy, grounded on practical common sense rather than a study of the metaphysicians, is of much more value to the world than abstract thought. She is, in short, better adapted for keeping us up to the mark. Henry Brown was unlucky enough to be a bachelor. This was through no fault of his own, for as a young man he had dreamed his dreams of a snug little home, a cheerful wife, and chubby children, who were always to remain at an age not exceeding nine. His dreams, with their usual perversity, had not been realized, though on more than one occasion he had made efforts to find his ideal. There had been, for instance, the daughter of a chimney-sweep, a virtuous and charming creature. There had been a policeman's niece, whose boast it was that she could "slip the bracelets"--her own expression--on a refractory subject as quickly as a professional thief-taker. There had been the relict of a fish-and-chips salesman, and quite a number of others, equally alluring and disappointing. In his early youth he had dallied with them all, but he had never got beyond the dallying stage. The reason had been always the same. It was not that he had failed to find the ideal: not at all! The quarry of the moment had always seemed the most peerless of her sex--with a mental reservation giving the policeman's niece the pride of place. It was simply because he could not afford to marry. Girls would "walk out" with him with pleasure. They would give him every encouragement until ... until the fatal truth became known. It was not that his immediate supply of cash was pitiable: it was because he had no "prospects." He had no trade, being merely the driver of a cab. Now it is possible for a cab-driver to marry and bring up a family, but it was a perverse fate that all the girls to whom he paid attention looked somewhat higher in life. And Henry Brown was unable to satisfy their aspirations. He was deep in the groove of cab-driving by the time he was twenty-three, and could conceive no other calling at which he might succeed.