Mechanically Moira patted the dog's eager head. Jet licked her hand, and then, barking excitedly, leapt up to lick her face. Involuntarily Moira shrank back, cloaking her revulsion with an unsteady laugh.
"But, Charles—Jet, what's come over you?"
Panting with eagerness, the dog continued to leap at her face.
"Oh, Charles, must she?" Moira pushed her away, with a look of apology. "I'm ever so happy that she's making friends—if only she wouldn't lick my face—"
"Down, Jet!" The dog groveled. "Stop it—you're making a nuisance of yourself!"
Jet slunk along at his side. The three walked up the path in silence. Moira realized with a slight sinking of heart that though the dog cast her a reproachful glance now and then, accompanied by a pathetic licking of Charles' hand, Charles himself would not look at her. Somehow, in spite of Jet's new-found friendliness, Moira had managed to offend him. She had been put in the wrong—"by a dog," she thought wonderingly.
"I notice Jet's making up to you," said Mrs. Bunty, a day or two later. "Just when Mr. Glenn's here."
Moira stared at her book without answering. So I didn't imagine it, she thought. It is only when Charles is here that Jet acts so friendly.
More than friendly, really. Affectionate—almost embarrassingly so. So heartbroken at the faintest breath of coldness, so pointedly going to Charles for comfort. As if—
Moira gave herself an impatient little shake and tried again to concentrate on her book.
"She used to beg him to get rid of that beast," said Mrs. Bunty, going ponderously toward her pantry. "Half crying, she was over it—yes, many's the time."
Moira closed her book. Jet was lying on the hearthrug.
"Here, Jet," she called softly. "Come, girl—come over and let me pat you."
The dog raised her head. She stared at Moira with an unwinking yellow gaze, but did not move. In that total lack of response there was something almost of contempt.
Pressing her lips together, Moira crossed the room. She knelt down.
"Let's make friends, Jet Shall we go for a walk?"
She put out her hand to stroke the sleek black head, but there was a barely audible growl. Almost in one movement the big dog got to her feet and sprang away, her hackles bristling.
Moira stared at her, her mind a confusion. Jet hadn't changed, then. But why the pretense?
At a sound still inaudible to Moira, Jet pricked up her ears. Moira scrambled to her feet and heard it too—the low deepening hum of Charles' motor turning down the lane. The dog dashed to the front door and began to whine, pawing at it in her eagerness.
Moira stood beside the dosed door and looked down at her. She was filled with sudden anger.
"Oh, no you don't!" she said through denched teeth. "I'm sick of your always being first!"
Darting to the corridor door, she dosed it swiftly behind her and drew a deep breath. When Charles switched off his motor and jumped out, she ran out the side entrance to meet him.
"Hello, darling!" she called gaily. "I thought you'd never get here!"
From the house there came wail after earsplitting wail. Charles' face darkened. He kissed her perfunctorily.
"What on earth's wrong with Jet? Is she locked up?"
Moira tried to laugh.
"No, darling—not really. I just forgot to let her out when we—I heard you coming."
Charles said gently, "You don't understand what a disappointment that was to her." Loosening her arms, he went toward the house, leaving Moira to follow. She dropped her eyes for a moment, to hide the sudden tingle of tears. But what utter nonsense—to be crying because Charles loved his dog!
Blinking the tears away with a little
