But for that voice, with the permanent cold hoarseness caught beside innumerable graves, Gyp might not have recognized Mr. Wagge, for he had taken off his beard, leaving nothing but side-whiskers, and Mrs. Wagge had filled out wonderfully. They were some time settling down beside her.
“You sit here, Maria; you won't get the sun in your eyes.”
“No, Robert; I'll sit here. You sit there.”
“No, YOU sit there.”
“No, I will. Come, Duckie!”
But the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was gazing at Gyp, while what was left of its broad nose moved from side to side. Mr. Wagge followed the direction of its glance.
“Oh!” he said, “oh, this is a surprise!” And fumbling at his straw hat, he passed his other hand over his sleeve and held it out to Gyp. It felt almost dry, and fatter than it had been. While she was shaking it, the dog moved forward and sat down on her feet. Mrs. Wagge also extended her hand, clad in a shiny glove.
“This is a—a—pleasure,” she murmured. “Who WOULD have thought of meeting you! Oh, don't let Duckie sit against your pretty frock! Come, Duckie!”
But Duckie did not move, resting his back against Gyp's shin-bones. Mr. Wagge, whose tongue had been passing over a mouth which she saw to its full advantage for the first time, said abruptly:
“You 'aven't come to live here, 'ave you?”