"Fifteen years," said Mr. Barrett, sinking into a chair, "and the old
place hasn't altered a bit."

"Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb Street to a Barrett,"
said the grocer, regarding him, "but I never thought of you. I suppose
you've done well, then?"

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.