Constable, the Great Dane, known by this abbreviated title in familiar life, rose, stretched himself, and went and snuggled his head beneath John's arm. John turned, his arm round the hound's neck.
“But you can live in it through anybody, dear,” said he—“your Uncle Oliver, your Aunt Julia, or anybody who comes to see you.”
Stellamaris looked at Herold for a characteristically sympathetic moment, and then at John. She sighed.
“I told you it was hard to explain. But don't you see, Belovedest? You and Walter are like my gull. Everybody else is like the little bird. You know how to tell me and make me live. The others are darlings, but they don't seem to know how to do it.”
John scratched his head.
“I see what you mean,” said he.
“I should hope so,” said Herold.
He looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. “Star of the Sea,” said he, “to talk with you is the most fascinating occupation on earth; but managers are desperate fellows, and I 'll get into boiling water if I miss my rehearsal.” He turned to John. “I don't see how you are going to catch this train.”
“Neither do I,” said John. “I shall go by the one after.”
Herold took his leave, promising to run down for the week-end. Constable accompanied him to the door in a dignified way, and this ceremony of politeness accomplished, stalked back to the hearth-rug, where he threw himself down, his head on his paws, and his faithful eyes fixed on his mistress. John sat down again by the bedside. There was a short silence during which Stellamaris smiled at him and he smiled at Stellamaris.