Her aunt’s voice roused her.
“There they are!” she said, pointing with her chin.
Dinny saw two men standing so still that she wondered if they had forgotten why they had come. One had a reddish moustache and sad cow-like eyes; the other looked like a bird with a game wing; their clothes were stiff with Sundays. They were not talking, nor looking at the flowers, but as if placed there by Providence without instructions.
“Which is Boswell, Auntie?”
“No moustache,” said Lady Mont; “Johnson has the green hat. He’s deaf. So like them.”
She moved towards them, and Dinny heard her say:
“Ah!”
The two gardeners rubbed their hands on the sides of their trousered legs, but did not speak.
“Enjoyin’ it?” she heard her aunt say. Their lips moved, but no sound came forth that she could catch. The one she had called Boswell lifted his cap and scratched his head. Her aunt was pointing now at the calceolarias, and suddenly the one in the green hat began to speak. He spoke so that, as Dinny could see, not even her aunt could hear a word, but his speech went on and on and seemed to afford him considerable satisfaction. Every now and then she heard her aunt say: “Ah!” But Johnson went on. He stopped suddenly; her aunt said “Ah!” again and came back to her.
“What was he saying?” asked Dinny.
“No,” said Lady Mont, “not a word. You can’t. But it’s good for him.” She waved her hand to the two gardeners, who were again standing without sign of life, and led the way.
They passed into the rose tent now, and Dinny looked at her watch. She had appointed to meet Wilfrid at the entrance of it.
She cast a hurried look back. There he was! She noted that Hilary was following his nose, Aunt May following Hilary, Aunt Em talking to a nurseryman. Screened by a prodigious group of ‘K. of Ks.’ she skimmed over to the entrance, and, with her hands in Wilfrid’s, forgot entirely where she was.
“Are you feeling strong, darling? Aunt Em is here, and my Uncle Hilary and his wife. I should so like them to know you, because they all count in our equation.”
He seemed to her at that moment like a highly-strung horse asked to face something it has not faced before.
“If you wish, Dinny.”
They found Lady Mont involved with the representatives of ‘Plantem’s Nurseries.’
“That one—south aspect and chalk. The nemesias don’t. It’s cross-country—they do dry so. The phloxes came dead. At least they said so: you can’t tell. Oh! Here’s my niece! Dinny, this is Mr. Plantem. He often sends—Oh!… ah! Mr. Desert! How d’you do? I remember you holdin’ Michael’s arms up at his weddin’.” She had placed her hand in Wilfrid’s and seemingly forgotten it, the while her eyes from under their raised brows searched his face with a sort of mild surprise.
“Uncle Hilary,” said Dinny.
“Yes,” said Lady Mont, coming to herself. “Hilary, May—Mr. Desert.”
Hilary, of course, was entirely his usual self, but Aunt May looked as if she were greeting a dean. And almost at once Dinny was tacitly abandoned to her lover.
“What do you think of Uncle Hilary?”
“He looks like a man to go to in trouble.”
“He is. He knows by instinct how not to run his head against brick walls, and yet he’s always in action. I suppose that comes of living in a slum. He agrees with Michael that to publish ‘The Leopard’ is a mistake.”
“Running my head against a brick wall—um?”
“Yes.”
“The die, as they say, is cast. Sorry if you’re sorry, Dinny.”
Dinny’s hand sought his. “No. Let’s sail under our proper colours—only, for my sake, Wilfrid, try to take what’s coming quietly, and so will I. Shall we hide behind this firework of fuchsias and slip off? They’ll expect it.”
Once outside the tent they moved towards the Embankment exit, past the rock gardens, each with its builder standing in the damp before it, as though saying: ‘Look on this, and employ me!’
“Making nice things and having to cadge round to get people to notice them!” said Dinny.
“Where shall we go, Dinny?”
“Battersea Park?”
“Across this bridge, then.”
“You were a darling to let me introduce them, but you did so look like a horse trying to back through its collar. I wanted to stroke your neck.”
“I’ve got out of the habit of people.”
“It’s nice not to be dependent on them.”
“The worst mixer in the world. But you, I should have thought—”
“I only want you; I think I must have a nature like a dog’s. Without you, now, I should just be lost.”
The twitch of his mouth was better than an answer.
“Ever seen the Lost Dogs’ Home? It’s over there.”
“No. Lost dogs are dreadful to think about. Perhaps one ought to, though. Yes, let’s!”
The establishment had its usual hospitalised appearance of all being for the best considering that it was the worst. There was a certain amount of barking and of enquiry on the faces of a certain number of dogs. Tails wagged as they approached. Such dogs as were of any breed looked quieter and sadder than the dogs that were of no breed, and those in the majority. A black spaniel was sitting in a corner of the wired enclosure, with head drooped between long ears. They went round to him.
“How on earth,” said Dinny, “can a dog as nice as that stay unclaimed? He IS sad!”
Wilfrid put his fingers through the wire. The dog looked up. They saw a little red under his eyes, and a wisp of hair loose and silky on his forehead. He raised himself slowly from off his haunches, and they could see him pant very slightly as though some calculation or struggle were going on in him.
“Come on, old boy!”
The dog came slowly, all black, foursquare on his feathered legs. He had every sign of breeding, making his forlorn position more mysterious than ever. He stood almost within reach; his shortened tail fluttered feebly, then came to a droop again, precisely as if he had said: ‘I neglect no chance, but you are not.’
“Well, old fellow?” said Wilfrid.
Dinny bent down. “Give me a kiss.”
The dog looked up at them. His tail moved once, and again drooped.
“Not a good mixer, either,” said Wilfrid.
“He’s too sad for words.” She bent lower and this time got her hand through the wire. “Come, darling!” The dog sniffed her glove. Again his tail fluttered feebly; a pink tongue showed for a moment as though to make certain of his lips. With a supreme effort Dinny’s fingers reached his muzzle smooth as silk.
“He’s awfully well bred, Wilfrid.”
“Stolen, I expect, and then got away. Probably from some country kennel.”
“I believe I could hang dog-thieves.”
The dog’s dark-brown eyes had the remains of moisture in their corners. They looked back at Dinny, with suspended animation, as if saying: ‘You are not my past, and I don’t know if there is a future.’
She looked up. “Oh, Wilfrid!”
He nodded and left her with the dog. She stayed stooped on her heels, slowly scratching behind the dog’s ears, till Wilfrid, followed by a man with a chain and collar, came back.
“I’ve got him,” he said; “he reached his time-limit yesterday, but they were keeping him another week because of his looks.”
Dinny turned her back, moisture was oozing from her eyes. She mopped them hastily, and heard the man say:
“I’ll put this on, sir, before he comes out, or he might leg it; he’s never taken to the place.”
Dinny turned round.
“If his owner turns up we’ll give him back at once.”
“Not much chance of that, miss. In my opinion that’s the dog of someone who’s died. He slipped his collar, probably, and went out to find him, got lost, and no one’s cared enough to send here and see. Nice dog, too. You’ve got a bargain. I’m glad. I didn’t like to think of that dog being put away; young dog, too.”