“Poor Cariad!” I went on, patting the unusually subdued little dog, “you have got a smart new tie! Don’t you like it?”
A one-sided conversation didn’t meet the case, so the “dumb animal” (as they call it) gave me the cue for my next remark to the almost equally dumb human being.
“I’ve always wanted to know where he got his rather curious name,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“It’s Welsh,” explained my employer abruptly, still standing by the open window. “It means ‘Sweetheart’”—if you must know, his tone concluded.
“Oh.... Is he a Welsh terrier?”
“We got him from Wales. From a little place in Anglesey where my people sometimes go for the summer holidays,” my employer vouchsafed, with an effort. “Porth Cariad the name of it is—‘Port Sweetheart.’”
“Fancy calling a place that!” I took up, with the one idea of keeping this conversation from coming to a dead stop. “But some people call anything that!” (I was wondering inwardly what this last remark could possibly mean even as I went on.) “Is it by the sea?”
“Er—I think so.”
“Oh, yes; ports generally are, of course.... Is it—is it a pretty place at all?”
“Quite. It hasn’t been spoilt yet. Charming little bay. The usual sort of thing.” (Pause.)