Half-past six. People had been to tea--big-wigs--and we were resting
after our labours. It was the perfect evening of a true summer's day.
Nobby appeared in the foreground, strolling unconcernedly over the turf
and pausing now and again to snuff the air or follow up an odd clue of
scent that led him a foot or so before it died away and came to nothing.
"How," said Adele slowly, "did you come by Nobby?"
Painfully distinct, the wraith of Josephine Childe rose up before me,
pale and accusing. Fragments of the letter which had offered me the
Sealyham re-wrote themselves upon my brain.... _It nearly breaks my
heart to say so, but I've got to part with Nobby.... I think you'd get
on together ... if you'd like to have him._ ... And there was nothing in
it. It was a case of smoke without fire. But--I could have spared the
question just then....
Desperately I related the truth.
"A girl called Josephine Childe gave him to me. She wanted to find a
home for him, as she was going overseas."
"Oh."
The silence that followed this non-committal remark was most
discomfiting. I had a feeling that the moments were critical, and--they
were slipping away. Should I leap into the tide of explanation? That
way, perhaps, lay safety.
Pages:
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376