"And now I've come back," resumed Mr. Davis; "come back to stop."

He hung his cap on a vase on the mantelpiece that reeled under the shock,
and, dropping into his chair again, crossed his legs and eyed her
sternly. Her gaze was riveted on his dilapidated boots. She looked up
and spoke mildly.

"You're not my husband," she said. "You've made a mistake--I think you
had better go."

"Ho!" said Mr. Davis, with a hard laugh. "Indeed! And 'ow do you know
I'm not?"

"For the best of reasons," was the reply. "Besides, how can you prove
that you are? Thirty-five years is a long time."

"'Specially on a desert island," said Mr. Wotton, rapidly. "You'd be
surprised 'ow slow the time passes. I was there with 'im, and I can lay
my hand on my 'art and assure you that that is your husband."

"Nonsense!" said the old lady, vigorously. "Rubbish!"

"I can prove it," said Mr. Davis, fixing her with a glittering eye. "Do
you remember the serpent I 'ad tattooed on my leg for a garter?"

"If you don't go at once," said the old lady, hastily, "I'll send for the
police."

"You used to admire it," said Mr. Davis, reproachfully. "I remember
once----"