For the first time in thirty years Mr. Simpson felt a razor on his face.
Then his hair was cut and shampooed; and an hour later he sat gazing at
a dark-haired, clean-shaven man in the glass who gazed back at him with
wondering eyes--a lean-jawed, good-looking man, who, in a favourable
light, might pass for forty. He turned and met the admiring eyes of Mr.
Mills.
"What did I tell you?" inquired the latter. "You look young enough to
be your own son."
"Or grandson," said the barber, with professional pride.
Mr. Simpson got up slowly from the chair and, accompanied by the
admiring Mr. Mills, passed out into the street. The evening was young,
and, at his friend's suggestion, they returned to the Plume of Feathers.
"You give the order," said Mr. Mills, "and see whether she recognizes
you."
Mr. Simpson obeyed.
"Don't you know him?" inquired Mr. Mills, as the barmaid turned away.
"I don't think I have that pleasure," said the girl, simpering.
"Gran'pa's eldest boy," said Mr. Mills.
"Oh!" said the girl. "Well, I hope he's a better man than his father,
then?"
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Simpson, painfully conscious
of his friend's regards.
"Nothing," said the girl, "nothing. Only we can all be better, can't
we? He's a nice old gentleman; so simple."
"Don't know you from Adam," said Mr. Mills, as she turned away. "Now,
if you ask me, I don't believe as your own missis will recognize you.
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