“The inaccurate observation of life, you see, Mr. Strang,” broke in Olive, “which, according to your cousin, delivers one from cynicism.”
“But cynicism has something to do with dogs, hasn’t it?” observed Mrs. Wyndwood, smilingly.
“Yes,” said Olive. “We must get Mr. Strang to define cynicism as the accurate observation of dogs. Don’t forget to tell him, Nor, when you sit to him to-morrow.”
Matthew Strang moved uncomfortably on his seat, raging inwardly, and scarcely knowing whether he was more jealous of Herbert or of Roy.
“Well, that superintendent must have been a cynic,” Mrs. Wyndwood went on, “for he recommended us to go and look at the dog all the same. It was a wild expedition—nearly eleven o’clock at night—we routed out a nest of costers who lived over a stable, and were invaded by means of a ladder. I felt like a robber Viking, all heart-beat and adventure. It was glorious!”
“Yes; and Roy came bounding out and nearly toppled you over. And all the little costers came crowding out of bed in their night-dresses, and you gave Mrs. Coster a sovereign for them in mistake for a shilling.”
Mrs. Wyndwood went into a fit of mirth over the recollection. For once her melodious laugh grated upon his ears. What in the world was there to laugh about? It seemed all the most puerile nonsense. He could have cried more easily.
“Remark his lively air,” said Olive. “His intuitive sympathy is wonderful. He is sad when you weep, and merry when you frivol.”
The painter merely heard the dog panting like an impatient steam-engine.
“He wants a run, I think,” he observed, ungraciously.