"I'm sorry," he said. "We hadn't one either."
"And did you mind?" I asked.
"Not a bit while Amabella was alive. But when she died I was a great deal alone, and the house seemed big and empty. I think it is a mistake not to have children." He looked at me a trifle severely.
"We've only been married a little over three months," Dimbie explained apologetically.
"Ah, well, that makes a difference, of course. You've got plenty of time. Good-bye, and may I give you my card?"
He fished one out of the pocket which contained the tin mug. It was a little soiled and wet.
"It is unnecessary to give me one of yours," he said with a smile. "I don't want to know your name. I shall just ask for Mr. and Mrs. Smilingface, who live in a tiresome, typhoid-inviting, creeper-covered cottage. Good-bye," and before we could speak he had gone.
With interest we examined the card:—
Mr. MONTGOMERY LEIGHRAIL,
THE GREY HOUSE,
ESHER.
Dimbie sat down and opened his blue eyes so wide that the crook in his nose moved in sympathy.