“Master George, my dear? Well, yes; but I can hardly forgive myself for thinking that other was the darling little fellow I was so proud to have in the house. But there, we are all right now.”
Gertrude signed.
“Why, my dear, you oughtn’t to do that. Now, if it was the other, with his dreadful ways of sitting up with Mr Saul over the whiskey, and the finding him asleep in his chair at seven o’clock in the morning, you might sigh.”
“Hush, Denton,” said Gertrude colouring, as she softly laid down the dog’s heavy head, with the effect that the poor beast whined.
“Now, I tell you what I should do if I were you, Miss Gertie,” continued the old woman. “Dogs are a deal like human beings when they’re ill.”
“What do you mean, Denton?”
“Why, poor Bruno has been shut up in this dark stable and wants fresh air. If I were you, I should go and get a book, and then lead the dog right down to the bottom of the garden, to the old seat under the yew hedge, and you could read in the shade while he lies down in the sun.”
“Denton, you ought to have been a duchess,” cried Gertrude; “you dear, clever old thing. Lie still, Bruno, and I’ll be back directly.”
Full of her idea, Gertrude ran into the drawing-room for a book; told Mrs Hampton, who was writing letters, what she was about to do; and, catching a sunshade from the hall-stand, she was back in the stable before five minutes had elapsed.
It was no easy task, though, to get the dog down to the bottom lawn. The poor beast, evidently in a drowsy way, approved of the change; but at the end of every few yards he lowered his head, and stood as if going to sleep on his outstretched legs. At such times Gertrude felt disposed to give up; but invariably as she came to this determination the dog seemed to revive, and slowly followed her again.