So he slammed into his house, threw off his coat and hat, and—sniffed. A pungent, acrid odor was floating through a partly closed door. Anthony Cardew flung open the door and entered.
Before the fire, on a deep velvet couch, sat his granddaughter. Beside her was a thin young man in a gray suit, and the thin young man was waving an old pipe about, and saying:
“Tempora mutantur, Lily. The wise employer—”
“I am afraid, sir,” said Anthony, in a terrible voice, “that you are not acquainted with the rules of my house. I object to pipes. There are cigars in the humidor behind you.”
“Very sorry, Mr. Cardew,” Willy Cameron explained. “I didn't know. I'll put it away, sir.”
But Anthony was not listening. His eyes had traveled from an empty platter on the hearth-rug to a deep chair where Jinx, both warm and fed at the same time, and extremely distended with meat, lay sleeping. Anthony put out a hand and pressed the bell beside him.
“I want you to meet Mr. Cameron, grandfather.” Lily was rather pale, but she had the Cardew poise. “He was in the camp when I was.”
Grayson entered on that, however, and Anthony pointed to Jinx.
“Put that dog out,” he said, and left the room, his figure rigid and uncompromising.
“Grayson,” Lily said, white to the lips, “that dog is to remain here. He's perfectly quiet. And, will you find Ellen and ask her to come here?”