René said:
“The beginning of it all.”
“Of what?” asked Lotta.
“Modern life.” And he found himself thinking of Kurt, who had just added to his laurels the first prize in a race to Berlin.
They reached Lotta’s cottage. Apple-trees stood by the gate, a clipped box-tree by the door. A sheepdog came bounding along the road, cleared the gate, and pawed frantically at Lotta until she crouched and he could lay his forelegs on her shoulders and lick her face in a frenzied greeting.
“He lives at the public-house when I am not here, but he refuses to regard it as anything but lodgings. Down, Sammy! You know Cathleen. Say How do to Mr. Fourmy.”
Sammy cocked his head, looked the other way, and lifted his paw. René shook it. The dog returned to his mistress, who said:
“I can’t keep my hands off the garden. It has got into such a dreadful state. You two had better go for a walk. You’ll find toadstools in the woods and there may be a few blackberries left.”
She gave them a basket and sent them forth.