“Take away that apron, do!” she said to Amy, pointing to the rough apron in the corner of the sofa. “By the way, where is Spot?”
“Spot, m’m?” Amy ejaculated.
Both their hearts jumped. Amy instinctively looked out of the window. He was there, sure enough, in the gutter, studying the indescribabilities of King Street. He had obviously escaped when Amy came in from buying the time-table. The woman’s face was guilty.
“Amy, I wonder AT you!” exclaimed Constance, tragically. She opened the door.
“Well, I never did see the like of that dog!” murmured Amy.
“Spot!” his mistress commanded. “Come here at once. Do you hear me?”
Spot turned sharply and gazed motionless at Constance. Then with a toss of the head he dashed off to the corner of the Square, and gazed motionless again. Amy went forth to catch him. After an age she brought him in, squealing. He was in a state exceedingly offensive to the eye and to the nose. He had effectively got rid of the smell of soap, which he loathed. Constance could have wept. It did really appear to her that nothing had gone right that day. And Spot had the most innocent, trustful air. Impossible to make him realize that his aunt Sophia was coming. He would have sold his entire family into servitude in order to buy ten yards of King Street gutter.
“You must wash him in the scullery, that’s all there is for it,” said Constance, controlling herself. “Put that apron on, and don’t forget one of your new aprons when you open the door. Better shut him up in Mr. Cyril’s bedroom when you’ve dried him.”
And she went, charged with worries, clasping her bag and her umbrella and smoothing her gloves, and spying downwards at the folds of her mantle.
“That’s a funny way to go to Bursley Station, that is,” said Amy, observing that Constance was descending King Street instead of crossing it into Wedgwood Street. And she caught Spot ‘a fair clout on the head,’ to indicate to him that she had him alone in the house now.