“I have a pair,” cried Gertrude eagerly, producing a tiny embroidery pair from a case.
“Capital! but, I say, my great ugly thumb and finger would not go into those holes. Could you—? No, it would be such a nasty task.”
“I should not consider it a nasty task to do anything to help my poor dog,” she said quickly.
“Then you shall do it. There, cut boldly between my fingers. Don’t be afraid. That nasty, matted hair frets the wound. That’s right; capital! Now, there again, and there. Hurt, Bruno? Never mind, old chap; don’t flinch. That will do.”
They were busy together, kneeling on either side of the dog for quite five minutes, before they raised their eyes and looked at each other, their faces only separated by a dog’s width, and Gertrude’s eyes fell beneath the admiring glance which seemed to thrill her.
“I am very grateful to you for what you have done.”
“Don’t name it. I am very glad.”
“But will he get well?”
“Oh, yes. It will take some little time, of course, but animals have a wonderful faculty for healing up. There, old chap, your case is attended to. No fees and no bills, thank you. Do you know, I believe he understands all about it. Hardly flinched, and I know I must have hurt him a good deal.”
“He has always been so patient while I bathed his head, and bandaged the cut.”