Miss Mary Erroll was walking up and down the “front hall” in her Quorn-cloth habit, whistling softly to herself. Her short riding-skirt needed no holding up to enable her to move comfortably, and her hands were clasped behind her about her hunting-crop.
Virginia, coming slowly down the many convolutions of the broad stair-way, noticed the dark sheen of the thick braid folded away under the smart little hat, the glimpse of fair cheek and throat, the thorough-bred lines of the slight figure.
“Mornin’,” she said, briefly.
Miss Erroll stopped in the midst of an intricate aria, unbent her red lips, and held out her hand in its loose dog-skin glove: evidently she intended to ignore the unpleasantness of their last interview.
“I came to Caryston for two reasons,” she announced, cheerily. “First, to give your father a message which Mr. Roden left with me. Secondly, to bring you something, Miss Virginia. I believe you like dogs?”
“Some dawgs,” said Virginia, speaking in a dull, even tone.
Miss Erroll, nothing daunted, led the way to the library; she pulled off the wrappings from about a wicker basket, and lifted out a sturdy mastiff pup, who, supported across the palm of his whilom mistress’s fair hand, made ungainly motions with his great paws, as though trying to swim.
“Won’t you take him, Miss Virginia? We have so many dogs at home, it would be a real kindness.”
“Most likely my father ’d like to have him,” said Virginia. “I don’t have much time ter ’tend ter dawgs. I’m much obliged ter you, though.”