A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.
“What is the matter with him, Flynn?” she asked.
Siward said: “You should let him run, Miss Landis.”
She nodded, smiling, inattentive, absorbed in her own affairs, still theorising concerning her telegram. She drove on for a while, and might have forgotten the dog entirely had he not once more lifted his voice in melancholy.
“You say he ought to run for a mile or two? Do you think he'll bolt, Mr. Siward?”
“Is he a new dog?”
“Yes, fresh from the kennels; supposed to be house-and wagon-broken, steady to shot and wing—” She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “You see how he's acting already!”
“Do you mind if I try him?” suggested Siward.
“You mean that you are going to let him run?”
“I think so.”