“Just as well—with the hunting season commencing,” returned Eliot indifferently.
Brett nodded, and, changing the subject, proceeded to explain the object of his visit.
“The prospect of an addition to her kennels produces much the same effect on Aunt Susan as the promise of a new toy to a kiddie,” he added. “She’s almost dancing with impatience over it.”
Coventry smiled.
“We won’t keep her in suspense any longer, then,” he replied. “You shall take the pup back with you. Come along to the stables and I’ll show you the one I thought of sending her.”
He rose as he spoke, tossing the stump of his cigarette into the fire, and Brett followed him out of the house and down to the stables where, in an empty horse-box, the litter of puppies at present resided. Cradled in clean, sweet-smelling straw, they were all bunched together round a big bowl of bread and milk—a heterogeneous mass of delicious fat roly-poly bodies and clumsy baby paws and tails that wagged unceasingly. At sight of the visitors, they deserted the now nearly empty bowl of food and galloped unsteadily towards them, squirming ecstatically over their feet and sampling the blacking on their boots with inquisitive pink tongues.
“This is the chap,” said Coventry. And stooping, he singled out one of the pups and picked it up.
All the hardness went out of Brett’s eyes as he took the little beast from him and fondled it, the puppy responding by thrusting against his face an affectionate moist black muzzle, still adorned with drops of milk from the recently concluded morning feed.
“He has all the points,” remarked Eliot. “I think he’s the pick of the litter.”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Brett, casting a knowledgeable eye over the others. “Though they’re a good lot, and you ought to find a winner or two amongst them.”