“Oh, no, sir, nothing of that sort! When you’re out, and Ulysses comes downstairs (as come he does), he behaves to Alphonse as though he hadn’t had a bite to eat in a month, nor wouldn’t think of touching so much as a scrap of meat he found on the kitchen floor. Well, as I said to Mrs. Preston, if ever a dog could speak, that one does, telling Alphonse as plain as a Christian that he’s the only friend he’s got in the world. Quite won Alphonse over, he has. In fact, when two nice loin chops was found to be missing, Alphonse would have it the undercook was accusing the dog of having stolen them only to cover up his own carelessness, and Ulysses sitting there looking as if he didn’t know what a chop tasted like. He buried the bones under the rug in your study, sir, but I have removed them.”
“You are not only an ill-favoured specimen,” Mr. Beaumaris informed Ulysses severely, “but you have all the faults of the under-bred: toadeating, duplicity, and impudence!”
Ulysses sat down to relieve the irritation of a healing wound by a hearty scratch. He was rebuked, and since he had heard that note in Mr. Beaumaris’s voice before—as when he had expressed a vociferous desire to share his bedchamber with him—he stopped scratching, and flattened his ears placatingly.
Mr. Beaumaris poured himself out a glass of wine, and sat down with it in his favourite chair. Ulysses sat before him, and sighed deeply. “Yes, I daresay,” said Mr. Beaumaris, “but I have something better to do than to spend my time spreading ointment on your sores. You should remember, moreover, that you cannot be permitted to meet your benefactress again until you are entirely healed.” Ulysses yawned at him, and lay down with his head on his paws, as one who found the conversation tedious. Mr. Beaumaris stirred him with one foot. “I wonder if you are right?” he mused. “A month ago I should have been sure of it. Yet I let her saddle me with a foundling-brat, and a mongrel-cur—you will forgive my plain speaking, Ulysses!—and I am now reasonably certain that neither of you is destined to be the most tiresome of my responsibilities. Do you suppose that that wretched youth is masquerading under a false name for reasons of his own, or in support of her pretensions? Do not look at me like that! You may consider that experience should have taught me wisdom, but I do not believe that it was all a clever plot to inveigle me into declaring myself. I am not even sure that she regards me with more than tolerance. In fact, Ulysses, I am not very sure of anything—and I think I will pay my grandmother a long overdue visit.”
In pursuance of this resolve, Mr. Beaumaris sent for his curricle next morning. Ulysses, who had shared his breakfast, bundled ahead of him down the steps of his house, leaped into the curricle, and disposed himself on the passenger’s seat with all the air of a dog born into the purple.
“ No! ” said Mr. Beaumaris forcibly. Ulysses descended miserably from the curricle, and prostrated himself on the flagway. “Let me tell you, my friend,” said Mr. Beaumaris, “that I have a certain reputation to maintain, which your disreputable appearance would seriously jeopardize! Do not be alarmed!—I am not, alas, going out of your life for ever!” He climbed into the curricle, and said: “You may stop grinning, Clayton, and let ’em go!”
“Yes, sir!” said his groom, obeying both these behests, and swinging himself expertly up on to the curricle as it passed him. After a minute or two, having twice glanced over his shoulder, he ventured to inform Mr. Beaumaris that the little dog was following him.
Mr. Beaumaris uttered an oath, and reined in his reluctant pair. The faithful hound, plodding valiantly along, with heaving ribs, and several inches of tongue hanging from his parted jaws, came up with the curricle, and once more abased himself in the road. “Damn you!” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I suppose you are capable of following me all the way to Wimbledon! It now remains to be seen whether my credit is good enough to enable me to carry you off. Get up!”
Ulysses was very much out of breath, but at these words he mustered up enough strength to scramble into the curricle once more. He wagged a grateful tail, climbed on to the seat beside Mr. Beaumaris, and sat there panting blissfully. Mr. Beaumaris read him a short lecture on the evils of blackmail, which sorely tried the self-control of his groom, discouraged him peremptorily from hurling a challenge at a mere pedestrian dog in the gutter, and proceeded on his way to Wimbledon.
The Dowager Duchess of Wigan, who was the terror of four sons, three surviving daughters, numerous grandchildren, her man of business, her lawyer, her physician, and a host of dependants, greeted her favourite grandson characteristically. He found her imbibing nourishment in the form of slices of toast dipped in tea, and bullying the unmarried daughter who lived with her. She had been a great belle in her day, and the ravages of her former beauty were still discernible in the delicate bones of her face. She had a way of looking at her visitors with an eagle-like stare, had never been known to waste politeness on anyone, and was scathingly contemptuous of everything modern. Her children were inordinately proud of her, and lived in dread of her periodical commands to them to present themselves at her house. Upon her butler’s ushering Mr. Beaumaris into her morning-room, she directed one of her piercing looks at him, and said: “Oh! So it’s you, is it? Why haven’t you been to see me since I don’t know when?”