“Let ’em think wot they like,” said Mr. Davis, recklessly.  “This is a nice home-coming after being away thirty-five years.”

“Most of it on a desert island,” put in Mr. Wotton, pathetically.

“And now I’ve come back,” resumed Mr. Davis; “come back to stop.”

He hung his cap on a vase on the mantelpiece that reeled under the shock, and, dropping into his chair again, crossed his legs and eyed her sternly.  Her gaze was riveted on his dilapidated boots.  She looked up and spoke mildly.

“You’re not my husband,” she said.  “You’ve made a mistake—­I think you had better go.”

“Ho!” said Mr. Davis, with a hard laugh.  “Indeed!  And ’ow do you know I’m not?”

“For the best of reasons,” was the reply.  “Besides, how can you prove that you are?  Thirty-five years is a long time.”

“’Specially on a desert island,” said Mr. Wotton, rapidly.  “You’d be surprised ’ow slow the time passes.  I was there with ’im, and I can lay my hand on my ’art and assure you that that is your husband.”

“Nonsense!” said the old lady, vigorously.  “Rubbish!”

“I can prove it,” said Mr. Davis, fixing her with a glittering eye.  “Do you remember the serpent I ’ad tattooed on my leg for a garter?”

“If you don’t go at once,” said the old lady, hastily, “I’ll send for the police.”

“You used to admire it,” said Mr. Davis, reproachfully.  “I remember once——­”

“If you say another word,” said the other, in a fierce voice, “I’ll send straight off for the police.  You and your serpents!  I’ll tell my husband of you, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Your what?” roared Mr. Davis, springing to his feet.

“My husband.  He won’t stand any of your nonsense, I can tell you.  You’d better go before he comes in.”

“O-oh,” said Mr. Davis, taking a long breath.  “Oh, so you been and got married again, ’ave you?  That’s your love for your husband as was cast away while trying to earn a living for you.  That’s why you don’t want me, is it?  We’ll see.  I’ll wait for him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the other, with great dignity.  “I’ve only been married once.”

Mr. Davis passed the back of his hand across his eyes in a dazed fashion and stared at her.

“Is—­is somebody passing himself off as me?” he demanded. “’Cos if he is I’ll ’ave you both up for bigamy.”

“Certainly not.”

“But—­but—­”

Mr. Davis turned and looked blankly at his friend.  Mr. Wotton met his gaze with dilated eyes.

“You say you recognize me as your wife?” said the old lady.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Davis, hotly.

“It’s very curious,” said the other—­“very.  But are you sure?  Look again.”

Mr. Davis thrust his face close to hers and stared hard.  She bore his scrutiny without flinching.

“I’m positive certain,” said Mr. Davis, taking a breath.