Mr. Jernshaw, who was taking the opportunity of a
lull in business to weigh out pound packets of sugar,
knocked his hands together and stood waiting for the
order of the tall bronzed man who had just entered
the shop—a well-built man of about forty—who
was regarding him with blue eyes set in quizzical
wrinkles.
“What, Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Jernshaw,
in response to the wrinkles. “Harry Barrett!”
“That’s me,” said the other, extending
his hand. “The rolling stone come home
covered with moss.”
Mr. Jernshaw, somewhat excited, shook hands, and led
the way into the little parlour behind the shop.
“Fifteen years,” said Mr. Barrett, sinking
into a chair, “and the old place hasn’t
altered a bit.”
“Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb
Street to a Barrett,” said the grocer, regarding
him, “but I never thought of you. I suppose
you’ve done well, then?”
Mr. Barrett nodded. “Can’t grumble,”
he said modestly. “I’ve got enough
to live on. Melbourne’s all right, but
I thought I’d come home for the evening of my
life.”
“Evening!” repeated his friend.
“Forty-three,” said Mr. Barrett, gravely.
“I’m getting on.”
“You haven’t changed much,” said
the grocer, passing his hand through his spare grey
whiskers. “Wait till you have a wife and
seven youngsters. Why, boots alone——”
Mr. Barrett uttered a groan intended for sympathy.
“Perhaps you could help me with the furnishing,”
he said, slowly. “I’ve never had
a place of my own before, and I don’t know much
about it.”
“Anything I can do,” said his friend.
“Better not get much yet; you might marry,
and my taste mightn’t be hers.”
Mr. Barrett laughed. “I’m not marrying,”
he said, with conviction.
“Seen anything of Miss Prentice yet?”
inquired Mr. Jernshaw.
“No,” said the other, with a slight flush.
“Why?”
“She’s still single,” said the grocer.
“What of it?” demanded Mr. Barrett, with
warmth. “What of it?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Jernshaw, slowly.
“Nothing; only I——”
“Well?” said the other, as he paused.
“I—there was an idea that you went
to Australia to—to better your condition,”
murmured the grocer. “That—that
you were not in a position to marry—that——”
“Boy and girl nonsense,” said Mr. Barrett,
sharply. “Why, it’s fifteen years
ago. I don’t suppose I should know her
if I saw her. Is her mother alive?”
“Rather!” said Mr. Jernshaw, with emphasis.
“Louisa is something like what her mother was
when you went away.”
Mr. Barrett shivered.
“But you’ll see for yourself,” continued
the other. “You’ll have to go and
see them. They’ll wonder you haven’t
been before.”
“Let ’em wonder,” said the embarrassed
Mr. Barrett. “I shall go and see all my
old friends in their turn; casual-like. You might
let ’em hear that I’ve been to see you
before seeing them, and then, if they’re thinking
any nonsense, it’ll be a hint. I’m
stopping in town while the house is being decorated;
next time I come down I’ll call and see somebody
else.”
