"
"Ah, that's what you think," retorted Mr. Mills, with a smile; "but the
barmaid at the Plume didn't. That's what made me come to you."
Mrs. Simpson gazed at him.
"I says to myself," continued Mr. Mills, "'If she don't know him, I'm
certain his missis won't, and I'd better----'"
"You'd better go," interrupted his hostess.
Mr. Mills started, and then, with much dignity, stalked after her to the
door.
"As to your story, I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Simpson.
"Whatever else my husband is, he isn't a fool, and he'd no more think of
cutting off his whiskers and dyeing his hair than you would of telling
the truth."
"Seeing is believing," said the offended Mr. Mills, darkly.
"I'll wait till I do see, and then I sha'n't believe," was the reply.
"It is a put-up job between you and some other precious idiot, I expect.
But you can't deceive me. If your black-haired friend comes here, he'll
get it, I can tell you."
She slammed the door on his protests and, returning to the parlour,
gazed fiercely into the glass on the mantelpiece. It reflected sixteen
stone of honest English womanhood, a thin wisp of yellowish-grey hair,
and a pair of faded eyes peering through clumsy spectacles.
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