Captain Falkland nodded, and as I kissed Kipper between his eyes I felt a great lump in my throat. I was parting with one of my very few friends, but I instinctively realised that I had bestowed him on a kind master.
With the struggling dog hoisted under his arm, his new owner wrung my hand, and said,
“Good-bye, I promise to take jolly good care of Kip.” He paused as if about to add something, then evidently changed his mind, hastily opened the door, and went forth. For my part, I resisted an almost overpowering impulse to follow him into the hall, but I was aware that such a proceeding would be outrageously improper. What would Baker think and say? As I stood half-hearted and uncertain in the middle of the room, I heard a motor buzzing down the avenue. He was gone! Then I went and sat on the rug before the fire, now entirely alone, and was aware of a curious sense of personal desolation. I dared not trust my heart to answer the question, which of the two I most regretted—the man or the dog?
By and by uncle arrived in exuberant spirits, talking himself into the library at the top of his clear, well-bred voice. It had been as Captain Falkland predicted, “the run of the season.” I was not a sportswoman, and I listened with politely assumed interest to a vivid description of the desperate going over Hippersly, the amount of grief that ensued, and the astonishing exploits of two hunters. At last, after having blown off sufficient steam, he said:
“So I’m told Falkland has been here?”
“Yes, he came to say good-bye to you. He starts for India on Friday. He waited ages.”
“What do you call ages?”
“Over an hour.”
After a pause of astonishment:
“You must have made yourself mighty agreeable, eh? Falkland hasn’t much to say for himself. He is a rattling good sort and a keen soldier, but not a ladies’ man.”