less smouldering wrath.

"You might lose it," he said, at last. "I sha'n't lose it," said his
wife.

To avoid further argument, she arose and went slowly upstairs. Through
the doorway Mr. Gribble saw her helping herself up by the banisters, her
left hand still at her throat. Then he heard her moving slowly about in
the bedroom overhead.

He took out his pipe and filled it mechanically, and was just holding a
match to the tobacco when he paused and gazed with a puzzled air at the
ceiling. "Blamed if it don't sound like somebody dancing!" he growled.

STEPPING BACKWARDS

"Wonderful improvement," said Mr. Jack Mills. "Show 'em to me again."

Mr. Simpson took his pipe from his mouth and, parting his lips, revealed
his new teeth.

"And you talk better," said Mr. Mills, taking his glass from the counter
and emptying it; "you ain't got that silly lisp you used to have. What
does your missis think of 'em?"

"She hasn't seen 'em yet," said the other. "I had 'em put in at dinner-
time. I ate my dinner with 'em."

Mr. Mills expressed his admiration. "If it wasn't for your white hair
and whiskers you'd look thirty again," he said, slowly. "How old are
you?"

"Fifty-three," said his friend. "If it wasn't for being laughed at I've
often thought of having my whiskers shaved off and my hair dyed black.
People think I'm sixty."

"Or seventy," continued Mr. Mills. "What does it matter, people
laughing? You've got a splendid head of 'air, and it would dye
beautiful."

Mr. Simpson shook his head and, ordering a couple of glasses of bitter,
attacked his in silence.

"It might be done gradual," he said, after a long interval. "It don't
do anybody good at the warehouse to look old."

"Make a clean job of it," counselled Mr. Mills, who was very fond of a
little cheap excitement. "Get it over and done with. You've got good
features, and you'd look splendid clean-shaved." Mr. Simpson smiled
faintly. "Only on Wednesday the barmaid here was asking after you,"
pursued Mr. Mills. Mr. Simpson smiled again. "She says to me, 'Where's
Gran'pa?' she says, and when I says, haughty like, 'Who do you mean?'
she says, 'Father Christmas!' If you was to tell her that you are only
fifty-three, she'd laugh in your face."

"Let her laugh," said the other, sourly.

"Come out and get it off," said Mr. Mills, earnestly. "There's a
barber's in Bird Street; you could go in the little back room, where he
char