“The poor little worm” was indeed stretched out gnawing at a bone.
“He oughtn’t to be in front of the fire,” said Jeremy. “It’s bad for dogs. It gives them rheumatism.”
She stopped her pounding. They had not met before, but it was one of those old hostilities born in the air, fostered by the crystal moon, roughened by the golden sun.
Jeremy stood, his legs apart, looking down upon his dog. He saw how fat he was, how deeply engrossed in his bone, how dribbling at the jaws.
“Hamlet!” he said. He repeated the name three times. At the third call the dog looked up, then went back to his bone. Mrs. Hounslow sniffed.
Meanwhile in Hamlet’s soul something was stirring—memories, affections, sentiments. . . . He licked the bone again. It no longer tasted so sweet as before. He looked up at Mrs. Hounslow imploringly.
She declared herself. “He do love the kitchen. If there’s one place where he loves to be, it’s the kitchen. Only last night I was saying to my sister, ‘Anne,’ I said, ‘it’s a most curious thing how that dog do love the kitchen.’ A little kindness goes a long way with animals, poor things. As I said to my sister——”
“But he oughtn’t to love the kitchen!” Jeremy burst out indignantly. “He isn’t a kitchen dog!”
Mrs. Hounslow had received the Last Insult. Her face darkened sub rosa. She to be reproached, she who had been the only one to show affection to the poor deserted lamb, she who had protected him and fed him and given him warm places in which to sleep. A kitchen dog! And her kitchen the cleanest, shiniest, most bescoured kitchen in Polchester!
She had, however, her dignity.