“Well, you're upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You get upstairs to bed.”
“I'd sooner stay 'ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I 'adn't gorn, that's what I wish.”
“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.
Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke desperately. “She says I'm to live to ninety, and I'm to travel to foreign parts——”
“You get to bed,” said his wife. “Come along.”
Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. “I'm to be rich,” he continued, slowly—“rich and loved. After my pore dear wife's death I'm to marry again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”
Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with passion. “How dare you?” she gasped. “You—you've been drinking.”
“I've 'ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly. “I shouldn't 'ave 'ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha'n't be 'appy with a young woman.”
Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.
“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss, kindly. “Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain't to be relied on.”