"Don't you know him?" inquired Mr. Mills, as the barmaid turned away.

"I don't think I have that pleasure," said the girl, simpering.

"Gran'pa's eldest boy," said Mr. Mills.

"Oh!" said the girl. "Well, I hope he's a better man than his father,
then?"

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Simpson, painfully conscious
of his friend's regards.

"Nothing," said the girl, "nothing. Only we can all be better, can't
we? He's a nice old gentleman; so simple."

"Don't know you from Adam," said Mr. Mills, as she turned away. "Now,
if you ask me, I don't believe as your own missis will recognize you."

"Rubbish," said Mr. Simpson. "My wife would know me anywhere. We've
been married over thirty years. Thirty years of sunshine and shadow
together. You're a single man, and don't understand these things."

"P'r'aps you're right," said his friend. "But it'll be a bit of a shock
to her, anyway. What do you say to me stepping round and breaking the
news to her? It's a bit sudden, you know. She's expecting a white-
haired old gentleman, not a black-haired boy."

Mr. Simpson looked a bit uneasy. "P'r'aps I ought to have told her
first," he murmured, craning his neck to look in the glass at the back
of the bar.