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----"