Off went Aunt Elsie, leaving Marcus to deal with Peggy—another dog, he supposed. “Marky’s got Peggy’s dinner!” He was hanged if he would say it. A moment later the door opened and Rebecca looked in: “You haven’t got Peggy, have you, sir?”
Marcus said he had not.
“She’s so excited at your coming, sir, she was tearing round the lawn like mad, just now—here she is!” Peggy tore into the room; tore round it two or three times, slipping, skidding on rugs, as she went. “Call her!” said Marcus.
“It’s no use, sir, not till she’s got accustomed to the excitement of you—”
“Tell her ‘Marky has got her lunch,’ or dinner; whatever meal you like to call it.”
“It wouldn’t be any use, sir, not when she’s wild over your coming like she is now.”
When Elsie came back, she had the grace to apologize, but it was evident she had no idea how badly she had behaved, or how impossible the dogs had been. Marcus thought that dogs must, at least, be obedient. Elsie said she was really very sorry, and as she spoke she marshalled the dogs and sent them off to their various dinners: then she came back, looked at him, and said he was exactly what she had always known he was.
“What is that?” he asked: it was rash of him to ask.
“Frightfully obstinate, for one thing.”
“And what else?”