"What about?"
"Your dog."
"I don't understand."
"Well, I thought—result of the excitement—and nerve-strain—I thought he might be upset."
"Because he ran away, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"You thought he would have a nervous break-down because he ran away?"
"Dangerous traffic," explained George. "Might have been run over. Reaction. Nervous collapse."
Woman's intuition is a wonderful thing. There was probably not an alienist in the land who, having listened so far, would not have sprung at George and held him down with one hand while with the other he signed the necessary certificate of lunacy. But Molly Waddington saw deeper into the matter. She was touched. As she realised that this young man thought so highly of her that, despite his painful shyness, he was prepared to try to worm his way into her house on an excuse which even he must have recognised as pure banana-oil, her heart warmed to him. More than ever, she became convinced that George was a lamb and that she wanted to stroke his head and straighten his tie and make cooing noises to him.
"How very sweet of you," she said.