One evening, when she was sitting with her two pretty, light slippers stretched out toward the wood fire in the fire-place, she said suddenly, “Rudolph, I’m going to change Beanie and get a toy Pomeranian.”
Mr. Granton turned round and said, “What!” He was sitting, as he usually did, beside a little table which had a shaded electric light on it. He was reading a book about the war, and sometimes stopped to gaze thoughtfully in the fire. Mrs. Granton wouldn’t talk about it to him. All she knew about the fighting in Europe was, that it would stop, for a time, her yearly visits to Paris to buy gowns.
He was staring at her. Finally he said, “I thought you were fond of Beanie.”
“I thought I was,” she said carelessly, “but Poms are more fashionable, and smaller. Beanie’s too fat to carry, and I think a small dog under the arm looks smart.”
“What will you do with Beanie?” asked Mr. Granton.
“Sell him of course—I’ll get a good price. I gave two hundred for him. I’ll send him to a vet to be starved for a while. He’s too fat now.”
Upon my word, I was sorry for Beanie. He sat listening to her, as if he could scarcely believe his ears. The poor simpleton had so presumed on the fact of her loving him. I could have told him long ago, he was in a dog-fool paradise.
Mr. Granton opened his mouth, as if to say something, then he shut it again. He took up his book, and went on reading about the war till Mrs. Granton’s smacking of her lips over her chocolates and novel got on his nerves. It usually did about eleven o’clock.
He got up, looked out the window, said, “I think I’ll take a walk.” Then he said carelessly, “Have you quite made up your mind to sell your dog?”
“Quite,” she said, smiling and showing her pretty teeth. She was really very pinky sweet and lovely. If she had only had a mind in her doll body.