“Please go into the house, and wait for us, Arthur,” the lady said, with polite decision. She had no mind to have this last touching rite spoiled by such an intrusion.
But young Mr. Clay was in an obliging mood. “Thank you; I'd just as lief stay, and rather. I never attended a canine funeral before.”
There was a momentary silence, then Mrs. Bently spoke again, with still more decision and far less suavity: “On the whole, you must excuse us from seeing you any longer this morning. If you had gone to the door, the servant would have told you that we do not receive any one to-day.”
The young man gave an angry laugh. “Oh! certainly! I wouldn't for the world intrude on your sorrow. Good-morning! It's a pity, though, that dogs are not immortal, isn't it? You might have John canonized.”
Mr. Bently flashed his eyes round at the speaker. “What!” he thundered, “you immortal, and my dog NOT!”
If they had been two Parrott guns, instead of two eyes and a mouth, Mr. Arthur Clay could not have retreated more precipitantly.
The grave was filled in and covered over with boughs, two sighs were breathed over it, then the couple walked, arm in arm, slowly toward the house.
“He was a perfect creature!” Mr. Bently said, after a silence.
“Yes!” assented the wife. “Only he would bounce at one so.”
“Marian,” said her husband solemnly, “if it hadn't been for John's habit of bouncing at his friends, you would have had no husband.”