"Then listen, Eleanor." He speaks authoritatively. "Come here. Sit down."
He points to a chair, but she sinks on the edge of the sofa, too agitated to notice her proximity to the huge mastiff.
"There is need of explanation," Philip continues, never taking his eyes off her white, scared face. "It is time you understood me. You say I have 'run you to earth,' as if through this long period of separation I had been hunting you like a bloodhound, and suddenly found myself on your track. You imagine I have just discovered you."
Eleanor's lips part as if to speak, but the words are choked back in her throat. "Help" stirs his head, for the first time she sees he is at her feet.
"You recall," says Philip, "that small dog—a suspicious Irish terrier—you were given some time back?"
"What of him? How did you know?" turning her eyes wonderingly from "Help" to Philip.
"It was killed in some bushes by a wild beast, when you were riding one day with your lover."
"Yes."
He pauses.
The mastiff rises slowly, and stretches himself, as if wearied by his day's work.