Next day, both Pentland and his eldest son arrived at eleven, and were informed by a sad-faced wife that her dear husband would travel to Southampton by the afternoon train. At the sight of Leah's dismal looks and attentive care, Frith expressed his opinion that women were protean. "Never thought you cared so much for Jim," he said bluntly. "Oh, I don't for a moment say that I think Jim is a good man," was Leah's artistic reply; "and we've had our tiffs, like other married people. But Jim's my husband, after all. And he has his good points." "What are they?" Lady Jim was not prepared with a catalogue of her husband's perfections. "Oh, I don't know," she murmured vaguely; "he drinks in moderation, you know. That's something." "There's no virtue in resisting a non-existent temptation," said the Marquis, grimly. "Jim doesn't come of a drinking family." "Of a consumptive one, I believe," retorted Leah, softly. Frith was nettled at the implied slight. "Not at all," he said, with unusual gruffness. "Look at me." "But that poor Garth----" "Oh, he--I don't understand--and if you----" Frith coloured as he met her derisive eyes, and devoted himself to his brother. Lady Jim left the affectionate trio together, lengthening out their farewells, and retired, laughing, to her room. It was really amusing to think that Jim, who was as healthy as a trout in a pond, should be wept over, and coddled, and pitied, and generally elevated to a sainthood. The business was serious enough, no doubt; but Leah could not help seeing the humorous side. She felt unequal to keeping a grave face while the comedy in the drawing-room was being played, and therefore did not rejoin her husband till the principal comedians had departed. "We are a couple of rotters," said Jim, gloomily, when she appeared. "Speak for yourself, my dear," she retorted coolly. "Well, and what did they say?" "Never you mind. You'd only snigger over a father takin' leave of his dyin' son." "Oh! I did not know that the Duke had seen Harold Garth." "Leah," cried her husband, fiercely, "you're a--never mind. Whatever you are, I'm another." "Did the Duke leave a cheque for me?" asked Leah, more business-like than sympathetic. Jim banged about among the medicine bottles. "Five hundred." "Dear man," cried his wife, snatching the cheque from his very reluctant hand. "I must go and dress for the journey." "Won't you kiss me, Leah?" quavered Jim, really moved, and quite forgetting the rascally plot in which he was taking so prominent a part. At the door she turned with an expression of withering scorn. "Keep your kisses for your wife, Mr. Berring!" cried this too-previous widow, and left him to digest the insult at his leisure. CHAPTER XIII