And, indeed, there was something mysteriously alluring in the long, gabled building standing almost, as it were, on an island, among the high trees which formed a screen to the house on the north and east sides. It was something solemn, something appealing—like a melodious, plaintive voice from the long-distant past, out of that Old Country which was the England of six hundred years ago.
"You've no idea how beautiful this place is in summer, Panton—and yet the spring is almost more perfect. You must come again then, and make a really good, long stay."
"Span will enjoy a swim in the moat even now," said the doctor, smiling. They were going slowly over the narrow brick bridge, and so up to the deep-eaved porch.
A butler and footman appeared as if by magic, and the sound of laughing voices floated from behind them. There was a pleasant stir of life and bustle about the delightful old house, or so it seemed to the guest.
He jumped out of the car behind his host, then he turned round. "Span!" he called out. "Span!"
But the dog was still lying on the floor of the car, and he made no movement, still less any attempt to jump down.
"What an extraordinary thing!" exclaimed Span's master. "Come down, Span! Come down at once!"
He waited a moment; then he went forward and tried to drag the dog out. But Span resisted with all his might. He was a big spaniel, and Panton, from where he stood, had no purchase on him. "There's something wrong with him," he said with concern. "Wait a moment, Varick—if you don't mind."
He got up into the car again and patted Span's head. The dog turned his head slowly, and licked his master's hand.
"Now, Span, jump out! There's a good dog!"