“That’s very curious,” said the old lady; “but, then, I suppose we are a bit alike.  You see, Mrs. Davis being away, I’m looking after her house for a bit.  My name happens to be Smith.”

Mr. Davis uttered a sharp exclamation, and, falling back a step, stared at her open-mouthed.

“We all make mistakes,” urged Mr. Wotton, after a long silence, “and Ben’s sight ain’t wot it used to be.  He strained it looking out for a sail when we was on that desert——­”

“When—­when’ll she be back?” inquired Mr. Davis, finding his voice at last.

The old lady affected to look puzzled.  “But I thought you were certain that I was your wife?” she said, smoothly.

“My mistake,” said Mr. Davis, ruefully.  “Thirty-five years is a long time and people change a bit; I have myself.  For one thing, I must say I didn’t expect to find ’er so stout.”

“Stout!” repeated the other, quickly.

“Not that I mean you’re too stout,” said Mr. Davis, hurriedly—­“for people that like stoutness, that is.  My wife used to ’ave a very good figger.”

Mr. Wotton nodded.  “He used to rave about it on that des——­”

“When will she be back?” inquired Mr. Davis, interrupting him.

Mrs. Smith shook her head.  “I can’t say,” she replied, moving towards the door.  “When she’s off holidaying, I never know when she’ll return.  Shall I tell her you called?”

“Tell her I——­certainly,” said Mr. Davis, with great vehemence.  “I’ll come in a week’s time and see if she’s back.”

“She might be away for months,” said the old lady, moving slowly to the passage and opening the street door.  “Good-afternoon.”

She closed the door behind them and stood watching them through the glass as they passed disconsolately into the street.  Then she went back into the parlour, and standing before the mantelpiece, looked long and earnestly into the mirror.

Mr. Davis returned a week later—­alone, and, pausing at the gate, glanced in dismay at a bill in the window announcing that the house was to be sold.  He walked up the path still looking at it, and being admitted by the trim servant was shown into the parlour, and stood in a dispirited fashion before Mrs. Smith.

“Not back yet?” he inquired, gruffly.

The old lady shook her head.

“What—­what—­is that bill for?” demanded Mr. Davis, jerking his thumb towards it.

“She is thinking of selling the house,” said Mrs. Smith.  “I let her know you had been, and that is, the result.  She won’t comeback.  You won’t see her again.”

“Where is she?” inquired Mr. Davis, frowning.

Mrs. Smith shook her head again.  “And it would be no use my telling you,” she said.  “What she has got is her own, and the law won’t let you touch a penny of it without her consent.  You must have treated her badly; why did you leave her?”

“Why?” repeated Mr. Davis.  “Why?  Why, because she hit me over the ’ead with a broom-handle.”