Eli promptly detected something like hostility in the voice and stopped wagging his tail. He hunched down his head and dropped his ears.
The lady surveyed him with disfavour.
“I suppose if I get down on my knees and put out both hands and smile and say, ‘Doggie, doggie, dear, good doggie, come here!’ why, then doggie will condescend to come. But I won’t do it!”
She closed the door with an emphatic slam that made Eli jump, and went back to the window.
But something in the mien of the old dog, who sat wistfully eyeing the closed door, touched her heart.
“I’m blaming him for something he don’t know—something he don’t understand,” she murmured at last, pity in her eyes. She went to the door and opened it wide. Then she stooped forward and wriggled her fingers coaxingly as she said:
“You nice old fellow, come here.”
He hesitated.
She pursed her lips and invited him with crisp little noises that sounded like kisses. She must have realised the suggestiveness of these sounds, for she suddenly blushed furiously and began to call to the dog softly and winningly.
He came, his shaggy ears cocked up with expectancy, his tail expressing his most genial appreciation of the invitation.