Unity pointed. “Constable—the jacket—I was mending of it.”
Stellamaris at once appreciated the theatrical side of the situation. She gripped the Great Dane by the dewlap in her fragile fingers.
“Oh, you silly dear Lord High Constable! It 's his scent,” she explained. “Anything he finds in the house that I've worn, he always brings me. Susan has to lock her door against him. You were mending my lace?”
“In the garden.”
Stella laughed again. “Foolish Constable, I can see it all. What did you say your name was, my dear?”
“Unity, m' lady.”
“Then come here, Unity, and let us see whether Constable has utterly ruined the jacket. I did so want to wear it this afternoon.”
Unity walked the two or three miles to the bedside, and took the jacket, and held it up for the inspection of four rueful eyes. There were great wet marks on it, of course, but these would dry. Otherwise no damage was done, Constable having carried it as tenderly as a retriever does a partridge.
“How old are you, Unity?” asked Stella.
“Nearly sixteen, m' lady.”