“What he has been through has ravaged his face.”
“That probably makes him much handsomer than he ever was before.”
“He hates the thought of meeting any one. But if you will have him here once or twice, and people know it, it will make things all right.”
“Will he come?”
“Yes.”
“You know I always do what you want.”
“I never want you to do dull things.”
“That’s true. The dogs don’t come into play against the people you bring here.”
It was a legend in Constantinople in Embassy circles that Lady Ingleton always “set the dogs” at bores. Even at official dinners, when she had as much as she could stand of the heavy bigwigs whom she was obliged to invite, she surreptitiously touched a bell. This was a signal to the footman to bring in the dogs, who were trained to yap at and to investigate closely visitors. The yapping and the investigations created a feeling of general restlessness and an almost inevitable movement, which invariably led to the speedy departure of the unwelcome guests; who went, as Lady Ingleton said, “not knowing why.” Enough that they went! The dogs were rewarded with lumps of sugar as are the canine performers in a circus. Sir Carey complained that it was bad diplomacy, but he was devoted to his wife, and even secretly loved her characteristic selfishness.
“Let Dion Leith come and I’ll cast my mantle over him—for your sake, Cynthia. You are a remarkable woman.”