“Clayton brought the little dog up, sir,” said Brough. “He said as you would wish to see how he looked. It seems, sir, that the dog didn’t take to Clayton, as you might say. Very restless, Clayton informs me, and whining all the evening.” He watched the dog thrust his muzzle under Mr. Beaumaris’s hand, and said: “It’s strange the way animals always go to you, sir. Quite happy now, isn’t he?”
“Deplorable,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “Down, Ulysses! Learn that my pantaloons were not made to be pawed by such as you!”
“He’ll learn quick enough, sir,” remarked Brough, setting a glass and a decanter down on the table at his master’s elbow. “You can see he’s as sharp as he can stare. Would there be anything more, sir?”
“No, only give this animal back to Clayton, and tell him I am perfectly satisfied with his appearance.”
“Clayton’s gone off, sir. I don’t think he can have understood that you wished him to take charge of the little dog,” said Brough.
“I don’t think he can have wanted to understand it,” said Mr. Beaumaris grimly.
“As to that, sir, I’m sure I couldn’t say. I doubt whether the dog will settle down with Clayton, him not having a way with dogs like he has with horses. I’m afraid he’ll fret, sir.”
“Oh, my God!” groaned Mr. Beaumaris. “Then take him down to the kitchen!”
“Well, sir, of course—if you say so!” replied Brough doubtfully. “Only there’s Alphonse.” He met his master’s eye, apparently had no difficulty in reading the question in it,, and said: “Yes, sir. Very French he has been on the subject. Quite shocking, I’m sure, but one has to remember that foreigners are queer, and don’t like animals.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Beaumaris, with a resigned sigh. “Leave him, then!”