Mills.
"Is he much hurt? Is he dying?" gasped Mrs. Simpson.
"Only his hair," said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. "He is not
hurt at all."
Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes-and sat regarding him in bewilderment.
Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes were
beginning to harden. "What are you talking about?" she inquired, in a
raspy voice.
"He's been to a hairdresser's," said Mr. Mills. "He's 'ad all his white
whiskers cut off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. And, what with
that and his new teeth, I thought--he thought--p'r'aps you mightn't know
him when he came home."
"Dyed?" cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to her feet.
Mr. Mills nodded. "He looks twenty years younger," he said, with a
smile. "He'd pass for his own son anywhere."
Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. "Perhaps he'd pass for my son," she
remarked.
"Yes, easy," said the tactful Mr. Mills. "You can't think what a
difference it's made to him. That's why I came to see you--so you
shouldn't be startled."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Simpson. "I'm much obliged. But you might have
spared yourself the trouble. I should know my husband anywhere.
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