Hannah was furious, but to no purpose. Dogs to her were just dogs—four-footed creatures, useful to bark at night and protect the house, but given to importing mud into houses and not blameless as to the encouragement of fleas. Many a conflict have we had, she and I, over Rex’s charter to roam where he would, upstairs or down. On this occasion we came to a wider cleavage than ever, for Hannah (and, from her point of view, very rightly) wished Rose to go to bed, whereas I, although conscious that as a habit such vigils would be very bad for her, was inclined to accede to her tearful wishes and allow her on this occasion to wait up. Such evidences of solicitude for her dog were very gratifying.
“I can’t go to bed, Dombeen, until I know,” she said, and she had my sympathy.
“You shall stay up,” I assured her, “till—till—”
“Till he comes back?” she supplied eagerly.
“No, I couldn’t promise that,” I said. “You see, he may have been found wandering by some one who has tied him up till the morning and will then bring him home. And you couldn’t wait up till then, could you?”
“Yes I could,” said Rose.
“Well even if you could, I couldn’t let you,” I said. “But you shall stay up till—till midnight, say. Till the clock strikes twelve.”
“Oh no, later than that,” said Rose. “Mayn’t I wait till three?”
We compromised upon half-past one, and Hannah’s opinion of me sank still lower.
“Calls himself a doctor!” I fancy I heard her muttering.