“Uncle Reggie gave five guineas for him when he was a baby boy,” said Judy eagerly, “and he’s worth much more now.”
“But he must be very old—when your Uncle Reggie was a boy——”
“I mean when Alcibiades was a boy.”
“And who is Alcibiades?”
Judy began all over again, and urged one or two new points.
“I don’t want to be harsh,” said the Aunt at last, “you shall have the little breakfast room to paint and carve in as you suggest. Of course I couldn’t have shavings and paint pots lying about all over the dining-room and drawing-room. And you shall keep your cur.”
“Oh, Aunty,” cried Judy, “you are a darling!”
“Yes,” the Aunt went on complacently, “you shall keep your cur till the bazaar, and then we will sell it for the benefit of the Fund for the Amelioration of the Daughters of the Country Clergy.”
And from this decision no tears and no entreaties would move her.
Judy made a den for herself and Alcibiades in the little breakfast room. There was no painting light—so she looked out a handful of the sketches that she had done last summer and framed them. Most of her time she spent in writing to her friends to know whether any one could take care of a darling dog, who was a perfect angel. And alas! no one could—or would.