He found it interesting to assist in moving in, to take over the direction and arrangement of everything. It needed a man to do that.
“Dad’s getting old,” he informed Esmé, when he took up his residence with her. “But you can always count on me when you want a man about.”
“That’s very nice of you, John,” she said. “You are a great help to me.”
He came to her one day in the garden, carrying a leggy retriever pup, which he thrust into her arms with an air of magnificent generosity.
“I got a dog for you,” he explained. “You must have a watch-dog, you know. George gave me the pick of his litter. When I told him I wanted it for you, he let me have his best pup.”
“Oh!” she cried quickly, and put the little beast down and stooped to pat it. “It’s sweet; but you must keep it. I won’t take your pup.”
“We’ll share it,” John returned magnanimously. “It will stay here. I expect I’ll run up most days to see it.” He fondled the puppy lovingly. “Isn’t he a beauty? He’s called Regret.”
“Regret!” she repeated slowly. “I don’t think I like that name for a dog. Let us change it, shall we?”
“I thought it a silly sort of name myself,” John replied. “But George named it. Perhaps he wouldn’t like it changed. We can cut it down to Gret.”
She bent down suddenly and kissed him, to his no small surprise. It pleased her that he showed consideration for others in his direct boyish way: she wondered whence he inherited that kindly characteristic.