comfortably upon the high fender, was ready for
conversation.

Mr. Denner, meanwhile, without waiting for the formality of an
invitation, went at once to a small corner closet, and brought out a
flat, dark bottle and an old silver cup. He poured the contents of the
bottle into the cup, added some sugar, and lastly, with a sparing hand,
the hot water, stirring it round and round with the one teaspoon which
they shared between them.

Mr. Dale had produced a battered caddy, and soon the fumes of gin and tea
mingled amicably together.

"If I could always have such evenings as this," Mr. Denner thought,
sipping the hot gin and water, and crossing his legs comfortably, "I
should not have to think of--something different."

"Your wife would appreciate what I meant about loneliness," he said,
going back to what was uppermost in his mind. "A house without a mistress
at its head, Henry, is--ah--not what it should be."

The remark needed no reply; and Mr. Dale leaned back in his leather
chair, dreamily watching the blue smoke from his slender pipe drift level
for a moment, and then, on an unfelt draught, draw up the chimney.

Mr. Denner, resting his mug on one knee, began to stir the fire gently.
"Yes, Henry," he continued, "I feel it more and more as I grow older. I
really need--ah--brightness and comfort in my house. Yes, I need it. And
even if I were not interested, as it were, myself, I don't know but what
my duty to Willie should make me--ah--think of it."

Mr. Dale was gazing at the fire. "Think of what?" he said.

Mr. Denner became very much embarrassed. "Why, what I was just observing,
just speaking of,--the need of comfort--in my house--and my life, I
might say. Less loneliness for me, Henry, and, in fact, a--person--a--a
female--you understand."

Mr. Dale looked at him.

"In fact, as I might say, a wife, Henry."

Mr. Dale was at last aroused; with his pipe between his lips, he clutched
the lion's-heads on the arms of his chair, and sat looking at Mr. Denner
in such horrified astonishment, that the little gentleman stumbled over
any words, simply for the relief of speaking.

"Yes," he said, "just so, Henry, just so. I have been thinking of it
lately, perhaps for the last year; yes--I have been thinking of it."

Mr. Dale, still looking at him, made an inarticulate noise in his throat.

Mr. Denner's face began to show a faint dull red to his temples.
"Ah--yes--I--I have thought of it, as it were."

"Denne