"What on earth are we to do?" she asked, unfeignedly affected. "I would give him to you in a minute if you think he would be contented without me."
"We can try it."
So Constance started westward, across the dunes, and Gray went into the bungalow with the[180] dog. But it required only a second or two to convince him that it wouldn't do, and he opened the door and called frantically to Constance.
"There is no use in trying that sort of thing," he admitted, when Constance hastened back to a touching reunion with the imprisoned dog. "Strategy is our only hope. I'll sit here on the threshold with you, and as soon as he goes to sleep I'll slink away."
So side by side they seated themselves on the sandy threshold of the bungalow, and the little dog, happy and contented, curled up on the floor of the room, tucked his blunt muzzle into his flank, and took a series of naps with one eye always open. He was young, but suspicion had already done its demoralising work with him, and he intended to keep at least one eye on his best beloveds.
She in her fresh and clinging gown, with the first delicate sunmask tinting her unaccustomed skin, sat silent and distrait, her idle fingers linked in her lap. And, glancing askance at her now and then, the droop of her under lip seemed to him pathetic, like that of a tired child in trouble.
When he was not looking at her he was immersed in perplexed cogitation. The ownership of the dog he had already settled in his mind; the[181] ownership of the quarry he had supposed he had settled.
Therefore, why was he so troubled about it? Why was he so worried about her, wondering what she would do in the matter?
The only solution left seemed to lie in a recourse to the law—unless—unless——
But he couldn't—he simply couldn't, merely for a sentimental impulse, give up to a stranger what he honestly considered an inheritance. That would be carrying sentimentalism too far.