He put the collar on, led the dog out to them, and transferred the chain to Wilfrid, who handed him a card.
“In case the owner turns up. Come on, Dinny; let’s walk him a bit. Walk, boy!”
The nameless dog, hearing the sweetest word in his vocabulary, moved forward to the limit of the chain.
“That theory’s probably right,” said Wilfrid, “and I hope it is. We shall like this fellow.”
Once on grass they tried to get through to the dog’s inner consciousness. He received their attentions patiently, without response, tail and eyes lowered, suspending judgment.
“We’d better get him home,” said Wilfrid. “Stay here, and I’ll bring up a cab.”
He wiped a chair with his handkerchief, transferred the chain to her, and swung away.
Dinny sat watching the dog. He had followed Wilfrid to the limit of the chain and then seated himself in the attitude in which they had first seen him.
What did dogs feel? They certainly put one and one together; loved, disliked, suffered, yearned, sulked, and enjoyed, like human beings; but they had a very small vocabulary and so—no ideas! Still, anything must be better than living in a wire enclosure with a lot of dogs less sensitive than yourself!
The dog came back to her side, but kept his head turned in the direction Wilfrid had taken, and began to whine.
A taxi cab drew up. The dog stopped whining, and began to pant.
“Master’s coming!” The dog gave a tug at the chain.
Wilfrid had reached him. Through the slackened chain she could feel the disillusionment; then it tightened, and the wagging of the tail came fluttering down the links as the dog sniffed at the turn-ups of Wilfrid’s trousers.
In the cab the dog sat on the floor with his chin hanging over Wilfrid’s shoe. In Piccadilly he grew restless and ended with his chin on Dinny’s knee. Between Wilfrid and the dog the drive was an emotional medley for her, and she took a deep breath when she got out.
“Wonder what Stack will say,” said Wilfrid. “A spaniel in Cork Street is no catch.”
The dog took the stairs with composure.
“House-trained,” said Dinny thankfully.
In the sitting-room the dog applied his nose to the carpet. Having decided that the legs of all the furniture were uninteresting and the place bereft of his own kind, he leaned his nose on the divan and looked out of the corners of his eyes.
“Up!” said Dinny. The dog jumped on to the divan.
“Jove! He does smell!” said Wilfrid.
“Let’s give him a bath. While you’re filling it, I’ll look him over.”
She held the dog, who would have followed Wilfrid, and began parting his hair. She found several yellow fleas, but no other breed.
“Yes, you do smell, darling.”
The dog turned his head and licked her nose.
“The bath’s ready, Dinny!”
“Only dog fleas.”
“If you’re going to help, put on that bath gown, or you’ll spoil your dress.”
Behind his back, Dinny slipped off her frock and put on the blue bath gown, half hoping he would turn, and respecting him because he didn’t. She rolled up the sleeves and stood beside him. Poised over the bath, the dog protruded a long tongue.
“He’s not going to be sick, is he?”
“No; they always do that. Gently, Wilfrid, don’t let him splash– that frightens them. Now!”
Lowered into the bath, the dog, after a scramble, stood still with his head drooped, concentrated on keeping foothold of the slippery surface.
“This is hair shampoo, better than nothing. I’ll hold him. You do the rubbing in.”
Pouring some of the shampoo on the centre of that polished black back, Dinny heaped water up the dog’s sides and began to rub. This first domestic incident with Wilfrid was pure joy, involving no mean personal contact with him as well as with the dog. She straightened up at last.
“Phew! My back! Sluice him and let the water out. I’ll hold him.”
Wilfrid sluiced, the dog behaving as if not too sorry for his fleas. He shook himself vigorously, and they both jumped back.
“Don’t let him out,” cried Dinny; “we must dry him in the bath.”
“All right. Put your hands round his neck and hold him still.”
Wrapped in a huge bath towel, the dog lifted his face to her; its expression was drooping and forlorn.
“Poor boy, soon over now, and you’ll smell lovely.”
The dog shook himself.
Wilfrid withdrew the towel. “Hold him a minute, I’ll get an old blanket; we’ll make him curl up till he’s dry.”
Alone with the dog, who was now trying to get out of the bath, Dinny held him with his forepaws over the edge, and worked away at the accumulations of sorrow about his eyes.
“There! That’s better!”
They carried the almost inanimate dog to the divan, wrapped in an old Guards’ blanket.
“What shall we call him, Dinny?”
“Let’s try him with a few names, we may hit on his real one.”
He answered to none. “Well,” said Dinny, “let’s call him ‘Foch.’ But for Foch we should never have met.”
CHAPTER 18
Feelings at Condaford, after the General’s return, were vexed and uneasy. Dinny had said she would be back on Saturday, but it was now Wednesday and she was still in London. Her saying, “We are not formally engaged,” had given little comfort, since the General had added, “That was soft sawder.” Pressed by Lady Cherrell as to what exactly had taken place between him and Wilfrid, he was laconic.
“He hardly said a word, Liz. Polite and all that, and I must say he doesn’t look like a fellow who’d quit. His record’s very good, too. The thing’s inexplicable.”
“Have you read any of his verse, Con?”
“No. Where is it?”
“Dinny has them somewhere. Very bitter. So many writers seem to be like that. But I could put up with anything if I thought Dinny would be happy.”
“Dinny says he’s actually going to publish a poem about that business. He must be a vain chap.”
“Poets almost always are.”
“I don’t know who can move Dinny. Hubert says he’s lost touch with her. To begin married life under a cloud like that!”
“I sometimes think,” murmured Lady Cherrell, “that living here, as we do, we don’t know what will cause clouds and what won’t.”
“There can’t be a question,” said the General, with finality, “among people who count.”
“Who does count, nowadays?”
The General was silent. Then he said shrewdly:
“England’s still aristocratic underneath. All that keeps us going comes from the top. Service and tradition still rule the roost. The socialists can talk as they like.”
Lady Cherrell looked up, astonished at this flow.
“Well,” she said, “what are we to do about Dinny?”
The General shrugged.
“Wait till things come to a crisis of some sort. Cut-you-off-with-a-shilling is out of date and out of question—we’re too fond of her. You’ll speak to her, Liz, when you get a chance, of course…”
Between Hubert and Jean discussion of the matter took a rather different line.
“I wish to God, Jean, Dinny had taken to your brother.”
“Alan’s got over it. I had a letter from him yesterday. He’s at Singapore now. There’s probably somebody out there. I only hope it isn’t a married woman. There are so few girls in the East.”
“I don’t think he’d go for a married woman. Possibly a native; they say Malay girls are often pretty.”
Jean grimaced.
“A Malay girl instead of Dinny!”
Presently she murmured: “I’d like to see this Mr. Desert. I think I could give him an idea, Hubert, of what’ll be thought of him if he carries Dinny into this mess.”
“You must be careful with Dinny.”
“If I can have the car I’ll go up tomorrow and talk it over with Fleur. She must know him quite well; he was their best man.”
“I’d choose Michael of the two; but for God’s sake take care, old girl.”
Jean, who was accustomed to carry out her ideas, slid away next day before the world was up and was at South Square, Westminster, by ten o’clock. Michael, it appeared, was down in his constituency.