“I don’t care how many cards you’ve got!” said Mr. Bennett with heat. “That dog of yours is sniffing at my ankles!”
He looked malignantly at a fine bulldog which now emerged from its cover and, sitting down, beamed at the company. He was a sweet-tempered dog, handicapped by the outward appearance of a canine plug-ugly. Murder seemed the mildest of the desires that lay behind that rugged countenance. As a matter of fact, what he wanted was cake. His name was Smith, and Mr. Mortimer had bought him just before leaving London to serve the establishment as a watch-dog.
“He won’t hurt you,” said Mr. Mortimer carelessly.
“You keep saying that!” replied Mr. Bennett pettishly. “How do you know? He’s a dangerous beast, and if I had had any notion that you were buying him, I would have had something to say about it!”
“Whatever you might have said would have made no difference. I am within my legal rights in purchasing a dog. You have a dog. At least, Wilhelmina has.”
“Yes, and Pinky-Boodles gets on splendidly with Smith,” said Billie. “I’ve seen them playing together.”
Mr. Bennett subsided. He was feeling thoroughly misanthropic. He disliked everybody, with perhaps the exception of Billie, for whom a faint paternal fondness still lingered. He disliked Mr. Mortimer. He disliked Bream, and regretted that Billie had become engaged to him, though for years such an engagement had been his dearest desire. He disliked Jane Hubbard, now out walking in the rain with Eustace Hignett. And he disliked Eustace.
Eustace, he told himself, he disliked rather more than any of the others. He resented the young man’s presence in the house; and he resented the fact that, being in the house, he should go about, pale and haggard, as though he were sickening for something. Mr. Bennett had the most violent objection to associating with people who looked as though they were sickening for something.
He got up and went to the window. The rain leaped at the glass like a frolicking puppy. It seemed to want to get inside and play with Mr. Bennett.