Watching him, as he contrived, while displaying over and over again from the edification of little Philip the magical properties of his repeating watch, to lend an ear to the particular problem exercising Leigh’s mind, Mrs. Wetherby thought that you would be hard put to it to find a more attractive man, and wished, as she had done a thousand times before, that she could discover some bride for him lovely enough to drive out of his heart the memory of his dead love. Heaven knew that she had spared no pains during the seven years that had elapsed since Clarissa’s death to accomplish this end. She had introduced to his notice any number of eligible females, several of them as witty as they were beautiful, but she had never been able to detect in his gray eyes so much as the flicker of the look that had warmed them when they had rested on Clarissa Lincombe.

These reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Wetherby, a dependable-looking man in the early forties, who grasped his brother-in-law’s hand, saying briefly. “Ha, Gary! Glad to see you!” and lost no time in despatching his offspring about their several businesses. This done, he told his wife that she shouldn’t encourage the brats to plague their uncle.

Sir Gareth, having regained possession of his watch and his quizzing glass, slipped the one into his pocket, and hung the other round his neck by its long black riband, and said: “They don’t plague me. I think I had better take Leigh along with me to Crawley Heath next month. A good mill will give him something other to think of than the set of his coats. No, I know you don’t approve of prizefighting, Trixie, but you’ll have the boy trying to join the dandy-set if you don’t take care!”

“Nonsense! You don’t wish to burden yourself with a scrubby schoolboy!” said Warren, imperfectly concealing his gratification at the invitation.

“Yes, I do: I like Leigh. You needn’t fear I shall let him get into mischief: I won’t.”