Clare, regardless of her laden arms, started in pursuit. Muriel followed. Fritz, evading the ticket collector, dived under the bookstall, then out again towards the wicket-gate just as a tall, tweed-clad figure strolled leisurely on to the platform.
"Fritz!" cried Clare. "Catch him, catch him!"
A long arm shot down. A sudden squawk announced the breaking of Teutonic dreams of liberty, and Clare stood, her arms full of tissue paper, a filmy nightdress, a single bedroom slipper, face to face with Godfrey Neale.
Solemnly he held out to her a mangled slipper and an armful of protesting, elongated dachshund.
"I think that these are yours," he said.
For a moment Muriel saw them stand in silence. Then, simultaneously, they broke out into uncontrollable laughter.
IX
"Of course, if it had been your dog, Mu, it would have run into the curate," Connie observed cuttingly.
"But I haven't got a dog," sighed Muriel.
Connie looked at her with pity. Really there were times when she wondered whether Muriel was quite all there.