“What did I tell you?” inquired the latter.  “You look young enough to be your own son.”

“Or grandson,” said the barber, with professional pride.

Mr. Simpson got up slowly from the chair and, accompanied by the admiring Mr. Mills, passed out into the street.  The evening was young, and, at his friend’s suggestion, they returned to the Plume of Feathers.

“You give the order,” said Mr. Mills, “and see whether she recognizes you.”

Mr. Simpson obeyed.

“Don’t you know him?” inquired Mr. Mills, as the barmaid turned away.

“I don’t think I have that pleasure,” said the girl, simpering.

“Gran’pa’s eldest boy,” said Mr. Mills.

“Oh!” said the girl.  “Well, I hope he’s a better man than his father, then?”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Mr. Simpson, painfully conscious of his friend’s regards.

“Nothing,” said the girl, “nothing.  Only we can all be better, can’t we?  He’s a nice old gentleman; so simple.”

“Don’t know you from Adam,” said Mr. Mills, as she turned away.  “Now, if you ask me, I don’t believe as your own missis will recognize you.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Simpson.  “My wife would know me anywhere.  We’ve been married over thirty years.  Thirty years of sunshine and shadow together.  You’re a single man, and don’t understand these things.”

“P’r’aps you’re right,” said his friend.  “But it’ll be a bit of a shock to her, anyway.  What do you say to me stepping round and breaking the news to her?  It’s a bit sudden, you know.  She’s expecting a white-haired old gentleman, not a black-haired boy.”

Mr. Simpson looked a bit uneasy.  “P’r’aps I ought to have told her first,” he murmured, craning his neck to look in the glass at the back of the bar.

“I’ll go and put it right for you,” said his friend.  “You stay here and smoke your pipe.”

He stepped out briskly, but his pace slackened as he drew near the house.

“I—­I—­came—­to see you about your husband,” he faltered, as Mrs. Simpson opened the door and stood regarding him.

“What’s the matter?” she exclaimed, with a faint cry.  “What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Mills, hastily.  “Nothing serious, that is.  I just came round to warn you so that you will be able to know it’s him.”

Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his ears tingling.  Then, steadying herself by the wall, she tottered into the front room, followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and sank into a chair.

“He’s dead!” she sobbed.  “He’s dead!”

“He is not,” said Mr. Mills.

“Is he much hurt?  Is he dying?” gasped Mrs. Simpson.

“Only his hair,” said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening.  “He is not hurt at all.”

Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes-and sat regarding him in bewilderment.  Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes were beginning to harden.  “What are you talking about?” she inquired, in a raspy voice.