“Bell?” said her husband, in a more surprised voice still. “It's me, Polly.”
“Go away at once, sir!” said Mrs. Henshaw, indignantly. “How dare you call me by my Christian name? I'm surprised at you!”
“It's me, I tell you—George!” said her husband, desperately. “What do you mean by calling me Bell?”
“If you're Mr. Bell, as I suppose, you know well enough,” said Mrs. Henshaw, leaning out and regarding him fixedly; “and if you're George you don't.”
“I'm George,” said Mr. Henshaw, hastily.
“I'm sure I don't know what to make of it,” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a bewildered air. “Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell this afternoon so like you that I can't tell the difference. I don't know what to do, but I do know this—I don't let you in until I have seen you both together, so that I can tell which is which.”
“Both together!” exclaimed the startled Mr. Henshaw. “Here—look here!”
He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window. Mrs. Henshaw scrutinized him gravely.
“It's no good,” she said, despairingly. “I can't tell. I must see you both together.”