By the time her aunt had alighted, Valerie was at the top of the steps.
Anthony walked up to her steadily. Then he took off his hat.
"I humbly apologize," he said. "It was unpardonable."
"You're right," said Valerie quietly. "That's just what it was."
As she spoke, a servant opened the door.
Valerie turned on her heel and walked into the house.
That same evening, when the others had gone to bed, Anthony called his terrier and set him upon his knee.
"Patch," he said, "I've come back to the fold." As was his habit when mystified, the terrier swallowed apologetically. "Is that too hard for you, my fellow? Let me put it like this. Once there were just you and I, weren't there? A fool and his dog. Caring for nobody, nobody caring for them, but to each other—just everything." The Sealyham licked his face. "Then one day she came … She. A wonderful, peerless creature, to dazzle the poor fool's eyes. And the fool just fell down and worshipped her. He didn't forget his little dog, Patch. He never did that. But—well, it wasn't the same. Of course not. You must have felt it sometimes…. But you're a good little chap. And I couldn't help it, Patch. She—seemed—so—very—sweet…. I risked your life for her once. I did, really." He paused to stare into the fire. Then he took a deep breath. "By Jove, if you'd gone… I should have been left now, shouldn't I? Properly carted. Well, well, old fellow, it's over now. Never again, Patch. The fool's learned his lesson. You'd never let me down, would you? No. But she has. They say it's a way women have. And I'm going to wash her right out of my life, Patch. Right out. Now."
He set the dog down, stretched out his arms wearily, and got upon his feet. The terrier leaped up and down as if he had been promised a walk.
Anthony laughed.
"So? You're pleased, are you? Ah, well…"