“That’s right. Kill him.”
“But, my dear, it is cruel to let him live.”
“He is too old to be healthy, Mrs. Haye. They are germ traps.”
Ruffles made confiding noises, wagging a patchy tail. An effluvia of decay arose.
“Perhaps it would be best.”
It was a pity to shoot him, after he had been so good. How sentimental dogs were. Nan would be having one of her waves of silent grief. Their breathing descended in a chorus to where he lay, hoarse, sibilant, and tired. Were they thinking of Ruffles? Did they all snore at night?
The evening was falling away and the breeze had dropped. A midge bit him on the ankle and a drop of sweat tickled him by the bandages. The pigeons were all cooing together, there seemed to be no question and answer, they were in such a hurry to say everything that there wasn’t time. Birds twittered happily and senselessly all round. Through it and over it all there was the evening calm, the wet air heavy everywhere. The sky would be in great form, being crude and vulgar.
They were silent because it was the evening, though they could not keep it up for long.
“A pretty sunset.”
“It’s that beautiful.”