Miss Bradshaw stole an uneasy glance at his somewhat sallow features, and became thoughtful.

“It’s no good having diamonds and motor-cars and that sort of thing unless you have somebody to share them with,” pursued Mr. Wright.

Miss Bradshaw’s eyes sparkled, and at that moment the shop-bell tinkled and a lively whistle sounded.  She rose and went into the shop, and Mr. Wright settled back in his chair and scowled darkly as he saw the intruder.

“Good evening,” said the latter.  “I want a sixpenny smoke for twopence, please.  How are we this evening?  Sitting up and taking nourishment?”

Miss Bradshaw told him to behave himself.

“Always do,” said the young man.  “That’s why I can never get anybody to play with.  I had such an awful dream about you last night that I couldn’t rest till I saw you.  Awful it was.”

“What was it?” inquired Miss Bradshaw.

“Dreamt you were married,” said Mr. Hills, smiling at her.

Miss Bradshaw tossed her head.  “Who to, pray?” she inquired.

“Me,” said Mr. Hills, simply.  “I woke up in a cold perspiration.  Halloa! is that Georgie in there?  How are you, George?  Better?”

“I’m all right,” said Mr. Wright, with dignity, as the other hooked the door open with his stick and nodded at him.

“Well, why don’t you look it?” demanded the lively Mr. Hills.  “Have you got your feet wet, or what?”

“Oh, be quiet,” said Miss Bradshaw, smiling at him.

“Right-o,” said Mr. Hills, dropping into a chair by the counter and caressing his moustache.  “But you wouldn’t speak to me like that if you knew what a terrible day I’ve had.”

“What have you been doing?” asked the girl.

“Working,” said the other, with a huge sigh.  “Where’s the millionaire?  I came round on purpose to have a look at him.”

“Him and mother have gone to the Empire?” said Miss Bradshaw.

Mr. Hills gave three long, penetrating whistles, and then, placing his cigar with great care on the counter, hid his face in a huge handkerchief.  Miss Bradshaw, glanced from him to the frowning Mr. Wright, and then, entering the parlour, closed the door with a bang.  Mr. Hills took the hint, and with a somewhat thoughtful grin departed.

He came in next evening for another cigar, and heard all that there was to hear about the Empire.  Mrs. Bradshaw would have treated him but coldly, but the innocent Mr. Kemp, charmed by his manner, paid him great attention.

“He’s just like what I was at his age,” he said.  “Lively.”

“I’m not a patch on you,” said Mr. Hills, edging his way by slow degrees into the parlour.  “I don’t take young ladies to the Empire.  Were you telling me you came over here to get married, or did I dream it?”

“’Ark at him,” said the blushing Mr. Kemp, as Mrs. Bradshaw shook her head at the offender and told him to behave himself.