That Lyveden felt perfectly at ease with her, and neither started nor spoke constrainedly, is worthy of note. It is, in fact, the best possible evidence that his belief in their affinity was well founded.
"You're quite right," he said. "After all, the great thing is to be on the spot. I'm afraid this means that your dog is ill."
Valerie looked away.
"He's worse than Patch," she said slowly.
"I'm awfully sorry."
As he spoke, Anthony remembered how the dogs had met in the drive a week ago. That, then, was how Patch had come by the sickness. Her dog had infected him.
Valerie looked up suddenly.
"I'm afraid I was awfully rude at the inn that day," she said quietly.
"It was rotten of me."
"No, it wasn't," said Lyveden quickly. "You were startled and upset and——"
"I've said all that to myself—several times. But it won't wash. It was just rotten, and I'm very sorry."