"I dunno; you say."
The old man mentioned a price. It was bigger than Cuckoo had expected. She nodded, moving her tongue across her lips. Then she looked away out of the window. She heard the chink of money.
"Put it on the table," she murmured.
He did so, looking steadily at her.
"You feels the parting, lydy," he began. "Very nat'ral, very. I knows what it is."
He extended Jessie, now whining furiously, towards Cuckoo.
"Want to sy good-bye, lydy?" he said.
Cuckoo shook her head. The old man popped Jessie into one of the capacious side-pockets of his coat and buttoned the flap down.
"Mornin', lydy," he said, turning towards the door.
Cuckoo made no reply. Her chest was heaving and her lips were working. The old man went out. Cuckoo heard the pattering feet of the little army of dogs on the oilcloth of the passage. The hall door opened and shut. A pause. The iron gate clicked. She had never moved. The money lay on the table. At last Cuckoo went out into the passage, and called in a strange voice: