"You get to bed," said his wife. "Come along."

Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. "I'm to be rich," he continued,
slowly--"rich and loved. After my pore dear wife's death I'm to marry
again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes."

Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with
passion. "How dare you?" she gasped. "You--you've been drinking."

"I've 'ad two arf-pints," said her husband, solemnly. "I shouldn't 'ave
'ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha'n't be 'appy with
a young woman."

Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.

"I shouldn't worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson," said Mr. Foss,
kindly. "Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain't
to be relied on."

"Eyes like lamps," said Mr. Dowson, musingly, "and I'm forty-nine next
month. Well, they do say every eye 'as its own idea of beauty."

A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the
over-wrought Mrs. Dowson. She controlled herself by an effort.

"If she said it," she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss,
"it'll come true. If, after my death, my 'usband is going to marry a
young woman with--with----"