“Uncle Sep loved him till you came, Eva, and cut him out in Kipper’s affections.”
We had now turned homewards, that is to say, in the direction from where the dagger-like spire of Beke church rose from the plain, and were walking four abreast, adapting our pace to the professor’s self-conscious waddle, with the humbled Kipper skulking in our wake.
“Yes,” continued Uncle Sep in his deep, scholastic voice, “I don’t mind telling you, when the fellow was a pup I tolerated him, took him round the garden, suffered him to lie at my fire, and even gave him milk; and for thanks, he tore up my new slippers and several most important papers. I even forgave him that!” emphasising such generosity with a large, fat hand. “But when Eva arrived he simply turned me down, ignored my existence, never answered when I called him, no, no more than if I was a piece of furniture; to be dropped by a dog makes one rather small!”
“I am sure you could never feel that!” protested Ronnie with dangerous frivolity.
“Well, but, Uncle Sep,” hastily interposed Lizzie, “you know Eva takes Kip for long runs over the marshes, she brushes him, makes up his dinner—your friendship was merely passive.”
“He was glad enough of it once,” rejoined the injured patron; “but two can play at that game. Now I never open a door for him—on principle.”
“So you have your innings!” exclaimed my irrepressible brother, “and I am sure you have something else to do than wait on a cold-hearted terrier. By the way, how do you put in your time? Do you play golf?”
“Golf? No—do I look like golf?” The professor halted, and leaning both hands on his stick, challenged an opinion.
“Well, no,” admitted Ronnie. “You look more like fishing—lots of sitting—eh?”
“I sit at my desk, my good sir, I fish for ideas. I write poetry, articles, reviews. ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’—I require no outside interests.”