It was Solomon.
“Down, down, good doggie, be quiet,” said Philippa, hastily, afraid of startling Evelyn. But that small piece of mischief was already accomplished. Mrs Headfort jumped up in alarm.
“Phil, Phil,” she cried, “do send him away! A strange dog dashing at you like that; he must be mad!”
“Nonsense,” said Philippa: “look at him; he’s a perfect dear—just like Valentine; as gentle as he can be. Don’t be so silly, Evey.”
But as she said the last words, looking round, to her horror, she caught sight of Solomon’s owner standing, as might have been expected under the circumstances, but a few paces off.
Could he have heard her! Philippa trembled at the thought.
“And I, who had imagined he was safely whizzing off northwards in the express!” she reflected.
Nerving herself she turned round so as to face him. His expression of countenance was entirely imperturbable; it told her nothing. Coolly whistling the dog off, he walked along the platform to the farther end of the train—whether to get into it, or to pass the time while waiting for some other, Philippa could not discover—Solomon obediently, though reluctantly, following him.
“The dog’s gone,” said Miss Raynsworth, turning to her sister with a touch of sharpness in her voice. “He was all right, I assure you. He knew me again, because he travelled in the same compartment with me from Crowminster.”
“Well, you might have said so,” said her sister, half ashamed of her fright. “I wish you’d get into your carriage, Philippa; we are sure to start immediately.”