"Stout!" repeated the other, quickly.
"Not that I mean you're too stout," said Mr. Davis, hurriedly—"for people that like stoutness, that is. My wife used to 'ave a very good figger."
Mr. Wotton nodded. "He used to rave about it on that des——"
"When will she be back?" inquired Mr. Davis, interrupting him.
Mrs. Smith shook her head. "I can't say," she replied, moving towards the door. "When she's off holidaying, I never know when she'll return. Shall I tell her you called?"
"Tell her I——certainly," said Mr. Davis, with great vehemence. "I'll come in a week's time and see if she's back."
"She might be away for months," said the old lady, moving slowly to the passage and opening the street door. "Good-afternoon."
She closed the door behind them and stood watching them through the glass as they passed disconsolately into the street. Then she went back into the parlour, and standing before the mantelpiece, looked long and earnestly into the mirror.
Mr. Davis returned a week later—alone, and, pausing at the gate, glanced in dismay at a bill in the window announcing that the house was to be sold. He walked up the path still looking at it, and being admitted by the trim servant was shown into the parlour, and stood in a dispirited fashion before Mrs. Smith.
"Not back yet?" he inquired, gruffly.