She sat down obediently and the dachshund immediately shifted its quarters and wedged itself in between 51 her feet. She leant forward with her elbows on her knees and gazed absently at the brown head.
“What have you been doing, Nevil, darling?”
“I? Not I, but Charlotte. Don’t you know by this time, Patricia, I’m only a scapegoat for the autocrat of the nursery.”
“He let Charlotte nibble a cigarette,” explained Renata.
“One of my very best.”
“It might have been one of his worst, Rennie,” suggested Patricia consolingly.
“They are all ‘worst’ for Charlotte,” cried Renata springing up. “I must go and put up my flowers or they’ll be here before I’m ready.”
She flitted away in the direction of the house. Her husband looked after her with mute sorrow at his own incapacity to melt from vision in that intangible manner—from situations that were too difficult.
He glanced at his little companion, who was making attempts to tie the dachshund’s ears round his own neck.
“You won’t be able to treat Christopher that way, Patricia,” he said contemplatively, “but it will be jolly for you to have a companion of your own age, won’t it?”