"You're not going 'ome?" said Mr. Kybird.

"No."

The shopkeeper stood considering. He had a small room to let at the top
of his house, and he stood divided between the fear of not getting his
rent and the joy to a man fond of simple pleasures, to be obtained by
dunning the arrogant Captain Nugent for his son's debts. Before he could
arrive at a decision his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of
a stout, sandy-haired lady from the back parlour, who, having conquered
his scruples against matrimony some thirty years before, had kept a
particularly wide-awake eye upon him ever since.

"Your tea's a-gettin' cold," she remarked, severely.

Her husband received the news with calmness. He was by no means an
enthusiast where that liquid was concerned, the admiration evoked by its
non-inebriating qualities having been always something in the nature of a
mystery to him.

"I'm coming," he retorted; "I'm just 'aving a word with Mr. Nugent 'ere."

"Well, I never did," said the stout lady, coming farther into the shop
and regarding the visitor. "I shouldn't 'ave knowed 'im. If you'd asked
me who 'e was I couldn't ha' told you--I shouldn't 'ave knowed 'im from
Adam."

Jack shook his head. "It's hard to be forgotten like this," he said,
sadly. "Even Miss Kybird had forgotten me, after all that had passed
between us."