In consequence of all this, the car’s driver had more time than ever on his hands! The summer days are long, and, when off duty, he saw a good deal of the Ramsays. The captain seemed of late to have sunk into a further depth of mental lethargy, and to have lost much of his affectionate interest in his old schoolfellow, Owen Wynyard. “I am giving up the dogs for the present,” announced Mrs. Ramsay one morning at the kennels, as he brought back three leg-weary companions. “I find I must not continue what absorbs so much of my time and carries me from home--though you are so good, and have undertaken the three worst characters--they’re just as wild as goats.” “But I like them,” he declared; “they are capital company, and give me an object for my tramps--these two fox-terriers and the little beagle and I are great chums. We have done a fine round this morning--they have had the time of their lives! Just look at them!” and she looked and smiled at their bespattered legs, lolling tongues, and happy eyes. “Oh, I am sure of that,” she replied; “for they are three town dogs! However, I must send the poor fellows away, all the same. I want to be with Jim altogether, and without his knowing it. You see, he will never allow me to walk with him; and he always fancies he is being watched, and looks behind him every now and then. All the same, I mean to follow him.” Wynyard listened in silence. Mrs. Ramsay was, in his opinion, little short of a saint; for years and years she had devoted her own individual life to this unhappy madman. It was for him she slaved to increase their small income, trading in plants and cuttings, and keeping other people’s dogs. With the money she earned she made Ivy House homelike and comfortable. The captain’s food, drink, tobacco, and surroundings were of a class that the exterior of the place did not seem to warrant, and were accepted by him as a matter of course. Nothing could induce him to believe that their income was less than a thousand a year; he had no recollection of his money losses. But this long-drawn-out effort and strain was beginning to tell on his wife. There were many white strands in her thick black hair, many lines in her face; she had grown thin and haggard, her beautiful Irish eyes were sunken, and wore an expression of tragic anxiety. She alone knew what she dreaded, and at last she put her fears into words--not to old friends like the Parson, or Susan Parrett, but to this recent acquaintance, this young Wynyard, who knew so much already. “Tell me, Owen, don’t you think that Jim looks rather strange of late?” she asked him, in a low voice. “No--much as usual.” “He sleeps so badly, and has no appetite, and seems horribly depressed. Oh, I feel miserable about him!” and she buried her face in her thin hands. “I wish I could do something, Mrs. Ramsay. Would you like me to stop here at night--you know you’ve only to say the word,” he urged, in a boyish tone that was irresistible.