chanted Katharine. “Hilda lives in dreams and shadows, I think, Mr. Odd, so naturally she paints them. ‘L’art c’est la nature, vue à travers un temperament’. Excuse my spouting.”
“So your temperament is a stuff that dreams are made of. Well, Hilda, make as many as you can. Hello! is that another old friend I see?” On turning to Hilda he had caught sight of a dachshund—rather white about the muzzle, but very luminous and gentle of eye—stretching himself from a nap behind the little stove in the corner. He came toward them with a kindly wag of the tail.
“Is this Palamon or Arcite?”
A change came over Hilda’s face.
“That is Palamon; poor old Palamon. Arcite fulfilled his character by dying first.”
“And Darwin and Spencer?”
“Dead, too; Spencer was run over.”
“Poor old Palamon! Poor old dog!” Odd had lifted the dog in his arms, and was scratching the silky smooth ears as only a dog-lover knows how. Palamon’s head slowly turned to one side in an ecstasy of appreciation. Odd looked down at Hilda. Katherine was behind him. “Poor Palamon, ‘allone, withouten any companye.’” Hilda’s eyes met his in a sad, startled look, then she dropped them to Palamon, who was now putting out his tongue towards Odd’s face with grateful emotion.
“Yes,” she said gently, putting her hand caressingly on the dog’s head; her slim, cold fingers just brushed Odd’s; “yes, poor Palamon.” She was silent, and there was silence behind them, for Katherine, with her usual good-humored tact, was examining the picture. The model on the sofa stretched her arms and yawned a long, scraping yawn. Palamon gave a short, brisk bark, and looked quickly and suspiciously round the studio. Both Odd and Hilda laughed.
“But not ‘allone,’ after all,” said Odd. “Is he a great deal with you? That is a different kind of company, but Palamon is the gainer.”