Her voice became suddenly reflective.
"A deal of good."
"Are you often out at such a time?"
"Not I. But that night I'd—well, I didn't feel like bein' indoors.
There's things—well, there, it don't matter. That toast's done, dearie.
Bring it here, and let me butter it."
Julian brought it, and cut another slice from the loaf. He toasted while the lady buttered, a fine division of labour which drew them close together. Jessie, meanwhile, attracted by these pleasant preparations, hovered about, wriggling in pathetic anxiety to share the good things of life.
"Anything wrong that night?" Julian said, carelessly.
The lady buttered, like an angry machine.
"Oh no, dearie," she said. "Make haste, or the tea'll be as black as coal. Jessie, you're a pig! I do spoil her."
Julian called the little dog to him. She came voraciously, her minute and rat-like body tense with greed.
"She's a pretty dog," he said.