Simpson.
"Only his hair," said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. "He is not
hurt at all."
Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes-and sat regarding him in bewilderment.
Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes were
beginning to harden. "What are you talking about?" she inquired, in a
raspy voice.
"He's been to a hairdresser's," said Mr. Mills. "He's 'ad all his white
whiskers cut off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. And, what with
that and his new teeth, I thought--he thought--p'r'aps you mightn't know
him when he came home."
"Dyed?" cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to her feet.
Mr. Mills nodded. "He looks twenty years younger," he said, with a
smile. "He'd pass for his own son anywhere."
Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. "Perhaps he'd pass for my son," she
remarked.
"Yes, easy," said the tactful Mr. Mills. "You can't think what a
difference it's made to him. That's why I came to see you--so you
shouldn't be startled."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Simpson. "I'm much obliged. But you might have
spared yourself the trouble. I should know my husband anywhere."
"Ah, that's what you think," retorted Mr. Mills, with a smile; "but the
barmaid at the Plume didn't. That's what made me come to you."
Mrs. Simpson gazed at him.
"I says to myself," continued Mr. Mills, "'If she don't know him, I'm
certain his missis won't, and I'd better----'"
"You'd better go," interrupted his hostess.
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