“Can’t you take time to answer properly?”
“Ye-e-m, but it’s—melt—ing,” jerked out the boy between dips. Yet the greediness was dying out of his face and a serene content taking its place. All unconsciously to their owner the boy’s feet began to swing themselves back and forth, occasionally hitting the base of the stool upon which he sat.
Miss Armacost did not know that this was a habit of all young children and a sign of material enjoyment; but she was just beginning to worry about her stool and the damage he would do it, when her attention was diverted to Sir Christopher.
He had licked feebly, and half disdainfully, at his own saucer of cream, then curled himself round upon the towel beside it. But he could not lie still. Up and down, around and about, he turned and twisted, and all the time emitting groans that clearly bespoke distress of some sort, and that his mistress fancied were almost human in tone.
“Why, my blessed doggie! What ails him, the dear? Is he sick? Does he ache all over? Tell Miss Lucy, Chrissy, tell what is wrong with her pet!”
“Why!” cried Molly, aghast. “Why! you talk to him just as mother does to Ivanora or Idelia! Does he understand you? Can he tell?”
“Yes. He understands. But there’s something seriously wrong with him. He was never so bad as this. Ring for one of the girls, child. Ring at once.”
Molly knew nothing about bells. In her own little home of six rooms there was no bell at all except one at the front door, and she looked around in some perplexity, wishing to obey but not knowing how.
“Stupid!” cried Miss Lucy, springing toward the wall and touching the button which sent an electric signal to the basement of the house; then, as Mary returned from her errand to Side Street, demanding anxiously:
“What have you been giving Sir Christopher?”