He went into half-mourning at the end of two months, and a month later bore no outward signs of his loss.  Added to that his step was springy and his manner youthful.  Miss Lindsay was twenty-eight, and he persuaded himself that, sexes considered, there was no disparity worth mentioning.

He was only restrained from proposing by a question of etiquette.  Even a shilling book on the science failed to state the interval that should elapse between the death of one wife and the negotiations for another.  It preferred instead to give minute instructions with regard to the eating of asparagus.  In this dilemma he consulted Jernshaw.

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” said that gentle-man; “besides, it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Mr. Barrett.  “Why not?”

“Because I think Tillett is paying her attentions,” was the reply.  “He’s ten years younger than you are, and a bachelor.  A girl would naturally prefer him to a middle-aged widower with five children.”

“In Australia,” the other reminded him.

“Man for man, bachelor for bachelor,” said Mr. Jernshaw, regarding him, “she might prefer you; as things are—­”

“I shall ask her,” said Mr. Barrett, doggedly.  “I was going to wait a bit longer, but if there’s any chance of her wrecking her prospects for life by marrying that tailor’s dummy it’s my duty to risk it—­for her sake.  I’ve seen him talking to her twice myself, but I never thought he’d dream of such a thing.”

Apprehension and indignation kept him awake half the night, but when he arose next morning it was with the firm resolve to put his fortune to the test that day.  At four o’clock he changed his neck-tie for the third time, and at ten past sallied out in the direction of the school.  He met Miss Lindsay just coming out, and, after a well-deserved compliment to the weather, turned and walked with her.

“I was hoping to meet you,” he said, slowly.

“Yes?” said the girl.

“I—­I have been feeling rather lonely to-day,” he continued.

“You often do,” said Miss Lindsay, guardedly.

“It gets worse and worse,” said Mr. Barrett, sadly.

“I think I know what is the matter with you,” said the girl, in a soft voice; “you have got nothing to do all day, and you live alone, except for your housekeeper.”

Mr. Barrett assented with some eagerness, and stole a hopeful glance at her.

“You—­you miss something,” continued Miss.  Lindsay, in a faltering voice.

“I do,” said Mr. Barrett, with ardour.

“You miss”—­the girl made an effort—­“you miss the footsteps and voices of your little children.”

Mr. Barrett stopped suddenly in the street, and then, with a jerk, went blindly on.

“I’ve never spoken of it before because it’s your business, not mine,” continued the girl.  I wouldn’t have spoken now, but when you referred to your loneliness I thought perhaps you didn’t realize the cause of it.”