"And there's no encumbrances, I think," remarked Matthew.
"There is no encumbrances," said Thomas. "No, it's a comfortable thing to reflect upon is that. I—I couldn't abear to have a pack of—of children about the place."
Matthew glanced about him once more and once more sighed.
"Well, of course, it'll make a difference," he began.
Thomas raised a deprecatory hand.
"Not to you, Matthew!" he said. "Not in the least, brother. Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be knows that one-half of everything here is yours. It'll only mean buying another armchair, which can be placed in the middle of the hearth there."
"Well, of course, with having been in the public line she'll know what men is," said Matthew, somewhat reassured. "I couldn't like to see anything altered in the old place nor my habits interfered with."
Mr. Thomas Pogmore intimated that everything would continue on the old lines, and presently marched off to bed, humming a gay tune. He was evidently in high good humour with himself, and he continued to be so for some weeks, during which period Mrs. Walkinshaw, who was a handsome, black-eyed widow of presumably forty-five, occasionally drove over and took tea with the twins, possibly with the view of getting acquainted with her future home. She was a sprightly and vivacious dame, and Matthew thought that Thomas had shown good taste.
And then came a night when Thomas, arriving home earlier than usual, entered the parlour looking much distressed, threw himself into a chair and groaned. That he felt in a very bad way Matthew immediately deduced from the fact that he neglected to supply himself with spirituous refreshment.
"What's the matter, Thomas?" inquired the younger twin.