“Ist! Go home; go back!” cried the doctor; and, as if understanding the state of affairs, and dejected and wretched at being treated like this, where he had expected to be patted and caressed, the dog drooped his head and tail, looked wistfully up at his master, and slowly trotted away. He turned at the end of the path, and looked back at them, as if half expecting to be recalled, and then went on out of sight.
“I’ll sell that dog, Jack; he’s growing vicious,” said Scarlett, speaking in an excited tone. “I’ve watched him a good deal lately. What are the first signs of hydrophobia?”
“Hydrophobia,” said the doctor smiling—“water-hating; but I have never studied the diseases of dogs—only sad dogs.”
“I wish you would not be so flippant, Jack, I’m sure that dog is going mad. He hates water now.”
“Don’t agree with you, old fellow,” said the doctor, throwing himself upon a great rustic seal beneath some pines; “the dog was quite wet, and I saw him, an hour ago, plashing about after the rats.”
“Ah, but he avoids it sometimes. I have a horror of mad dogs.”
Scarlett settled himself down in the seat in a moody, excitable way, looking uneasily round; and the doctor offered him a cigar, which he took and lit, Scales also lighting one, and the friends sat smoking in the delicious pine-scented shade.
“I wish that woman would not be so fond of coming over here,” said Scarlett suddenly.
“What woman?”
“That Lady Martlett. Coarse, masculine, horsy creature. She is spoiling Kate.”