closer. "You understand that, don't you? I hate you!"
Not a muscle of Jet's face moved. Steadily she gazed at Moira.
In the end it was Moira who moved away, feeling shaken and slightly sick. She leaned against the open casement, staring at the heat-heavy garden without seeing it.
I must be losing my mind, she thought drearily. Talking to a dog like that—a dog!
For appearance's sake she attempted to eat the breakfast that Mrs. Bunty put before her, but it was no use. Her eyes kept straying to Jet in her corner. Always the dog's eyes were on her—watchful, steady, a depth of still dislike cloaked beneath that impassivity.
Abruptly Moira rose from the table and walked upstairs. Padding footsteps followed. Sitting down at the dressing table, she could see in the glass Jet stretched out in the doorway, watching her.
"Get out!" she screamed suddenly. "Get out, get out!"
Springing to the door, she pushed it with all her strength against Jet's weight, and when she had closed it leaned against it, panting.
I'm losing my mind, she thought again. This isn't me—I've changed, I've changed! Something ghastly is happening to me, and I don't know what it is!
The day was a still and breathless one, a weight of motionless heat oppressing the air. From her window she saw the sea, heavy and oily at the foot of the cliff. Not a bird was in the sky.
A dog, she thought wonderingly. A dog is breaking up my marriage. No, that's impossible! That's absolute nonsense! It's I, Moira Burton, I've had kittens and cats and dogs all my life, and a darling old pony named Whiffle!
She walked the floor restlessly, without realizing that she did it. I'll go for a swim—no, Charles didn't want her to go swimming, because of Caroline. Perhaps she could read. Perhaps—
If only Jet would die.
The day grew steadily hotter, till it was effort almost to breathe. In the afternoon Charles put through a trunk call from London.
"Darling, I'll be a bit late. Look here, I'm frightfully sorry about last night. Did you sleep?"
Sunshine flooded Moira. She drew a deep breath.
"Oh, Charles! Oh, darling, I was so horrid!"
"I was horrider," he said apologetically. "I've got a bit unreasonable, I think—being alone so much. You know, I think perhaps we should stay in town. What do you think?"
"Oh, darling!" said Moira in a daze. "Just heavenly!"
"Better all around, I mean. You'd have company—and I imagine we could manage about Jet. Take her for walks and so on. Don't you?"
Jet! When Moira replaced the receiver a minute later, she felt curiously numb. Jet. Always Jet. Wherever they w'ent, always Jet to be a third.
There was a slight movement behind her. She turned and looked at the dog, her eyes narrowing.
"Oh, no!" she whispered. "You won't be there! He'll never know what carried you off—but believe me, my dear dumb friend, you won't be there!"
She felt strangely light and elated as the afternoon wore on.
"I'll have an early dinner, Mrs. Bunty," she said gaily. "I'm feeling quite ravenous. And then you can go, since Mr. Glenn won't be home until late."
When dinner was cleared away she still felt restless and excited, almost feverish. She was filled with the continuing intoxication of a decision taken which cannot yet be confirmed by action.
As she stood smiling by the drawing-room window, looking out with bright unseeing eyes, Mrs. Bunty came in to bid her goodnight, her sensible hat set squarely atop her smooth head. She hesitated a moment in the doorway, regarding Moira with an odd concern.
"I'm not just easy leaving you here alone, madam. If you'd like me to stay—"
