Daisy Johnson, for instance, had retailed it with some gusto to the Rising Barrister.
"What a pity about Mr. Benton, isn't it?" she had murmured before dinner, moving a little so that the pink light from a lamp fell on her face. Pink, she reflected, was undoubtedly the colour she would have for all the shades when she had a house.
The Rising Barrister regarded her casually. "What is a pity?" he asked.
"Haven't you heard?" she cried. "Why, this afternoon poor little Toots—Madge Saunderson's dog—fell into the mill-stream."
"Thank God!" ejaculated the Barrister, brutally.
"Oh, I know he wasn't an attractive dog!" she said.
"Attractive!" he interrupted. "Why, the little beast's snorts reverberated through the house!"
"But still," she continued, firmly, "I don't think Mr. Benton should have let it drown before his eyes without raising a finger to save it. He stood stock-still on the bank—hesitating; and then it was too late. Of course, I suppose it was a little dangerous." She shrugged a delightful pair of shoulders gracefully. "I don't think most men would have hesitated." She glanced at the Rising Barrister as she spoke, and if he failed to alter the "most men" to his own advantage the fault was certainly not hers. It struck him suddenly that pink gave a most attractive lighting effect.
"Er—perhaps not," he murmured. "Still, I expect he was quite right, you know. One—er—should be very careful what one says in cases of this sort."
Which was why a few minutes later he retailed the story to the Celebrated Actor, over a sherry-and-bitters.