“I have such a dear dog at home,” said Mrs. Elliot.
“My parrot can’t stand dogs,” said Mrs. Paley, with the air of one making a confidence. “I always suspect that he (or she) was teased by a dog when I was abroad.”
“You didn’t get far this morning, Miss Warrington,” said Mr. Venning.
“It was hot,” she answered. Their conversation became private, owing to Mrs. Paley’s deafness and the long sad history which Mrs. Elliot had embarked upon of a wire-haired terrier, white with just one black spot, belonging to an uncle of hers, which had committed suicide. “Animals do commit suicide,” she sighed, as if she asserted a painful fact.
“Couldn’t we explore the town this evening?” Mr. Venning suggested.
“My aunt—” Susan began.
“You deserve a holiday,” he said. “You’re always doing things for other people.”
“But that’s my life,” she said, under cover of refilling the teapot.
“That’s no one’s life,” he returned, “no young person’s. You’ll come?”
“I should like to come,” she murmured.