"When is that good-for-nothing ’usband of yours going to get up?" she enquired. Mrs. Welwyn flushed red, but patted her cantankerous parent good-humouredly on the shoulder. "That’s all right, Mother," she said. "You mind your business and I’ll mind mine. Lucius sits up very late at night, working,--long after you and I have gone to bed,--so he’s entitled to a good long lay in the morning." "Pack o’ nonsense!" observed Mr. Welwyn’s mother-in-law. "I’d learn ’im!" "Good-morning, good people!" Lucius Welwyn strode into the room with all the buoyancy and cheerfulness of a successful man of forty. As a matter of fact he was a failure of fifty-nine, but he still posed to himself with fair success as a retired man of letters. His rôle was that of the philosophic onlooker, who prefers scholarly ease and detachment to the sordid strivings of a commercial age. In reality he was an idle, shiftless, slightly dissipated, but thoroughly charming humbug. He was genuinely attached to his wife, and in his more candid moments readily and bitterly acknowledged the magnitude and completeness of his debt to her. He possessed a quick smile and considerable charm of manner; and when he was attired, not as now in a dressing-gown and slippers, but in the garments of ceremony, he still looked what he undoubtedly was--a scholar and gentleman. "Good-morning, Father. Your breakfast is all ready. Sit down, do, and take it while it’s hot," Mrs. Welwyn besought him. "Breakfast?" exclaimed Mr. Welwyn with infectious heartiness. "Capital!" He seated himself before the tray. "A good wife and a good breakfast--some men are born lucky!" "Some men," remarked an acid voice, "are born a deal luckier than what they deserve to be." Mr. Welwyn, who was sitting with his back to the oracle, did not turn round. "That you, Grandma?" he said lightly, pouring out his tea. "You are in your usual beatific frame of mind, I am glad to note." "None of your long words with me, Lucius Welwyn!" countered his aged relative with spirit. "I never ’ad no schooling, but I knows a waster when I sees ’un." "Kidneys? Delicious!" remarked Mr. Welwyn, lifting the dish-cover. "Martha, you spoil me." This pronouncement received such hearty endorsement from the fireside that Mrs. Welwyn crossed the room and laid a firm hand upon her sprightly parent’s palsied shoulder. "Now then, Mother," she said briskly, "you trot across the landing to your own room. I’m going to turn this one out presently. I’ve lit a fire for you." Mrs. Banks, who knew full well that behind a smiling face her daughter masked a hopelessly partisan spirit, rose to her infirm feet and departed, grumbling. At the door she paused to glare malignantly upon the back of her well-connected son-in-law. But that unworthy favourite of fortune was helping himself to kidneys.