"What on earth," she demanded, "has been the matter?"
I held up my hand.
"Listen."
Berry was speaking upon the telephone.
"Is that the Waddell Institute? I am so very sorry—I might almost say distracted—that you should have been kept waiting.... You see, I've just been mauled.... No. Not 'called,' mauled. Emma, ak, u, l for leather—I beg your pardon. Yes, isn't it tawful? Well, if you must know, it was a bloodhound. They told me at the Dogs' Home that he'd lost his scent as a result of the air raids, but last night the charwoman gave him a sausage I'd left, and he pulled me down this morning.... Yes. This is Major Pleydell.... Oh, Walter Thomas Dale? Yes, I remember perfectly.... Received the requisite number of votes? Splendid.... Can be admitted on the fifteenth of June? Thanks very much.... What?... Oh, I shall pull round. Yes, thanks. I shall just get the wounds plugged, and.... Good-bye."
We heard the receiver replaced.
"Hurray!" cried Daphne. "I am glad. That's a real load off my mind. Write and tell them this morning, will you?" I looked up from the operation of drying Nobby and nodded. "Poor people, they'll be so thankful. And now, what happened upstairs?"
"Mixed bathing," said I. "Your husband had not left the bath when Nobby entered it. Both were frightened, but neither was hurt."
As I spoke, Berry emerged from the library with a cigarette in his mouth.
"My milk-white skin," he said, "has been defaced. My beautiful trunk has been lacerated as with jagged nails. You know, I tremble for that dog's soul. It mayn't be his fault, but it's invariably my misfortune." He turned to my sister. "You heard about Walter Thomas? Good. And now I shall slip on some iodine and underclothes and come down as I am."