The mother of Snubs had been distantly related to a family of respectable middle-class fox-terriers.
“I am very sorry,” said Judy. She meant apology, but the Aunt took it for sympathy, and softened somewhat.
“A nice little smooth-coated dog now,” she said, “a fox-terrier, or an Italian greyhound; you see I am not ignorant of the names of various patterns of dog. I will get you one myself; we will go to the Dogs’ Home at Battersea, where really nice dogs are often sold quite cheap. Or perhaps they might take your poor cur in exchange.”
Judy began to cry.
“Yes, cry, my dear,” said the Aunt kindly; “it will do you a world of good.”
When the Aunt was asleep—she had closed her ears to the protests of Alcibiades with wadding left over from a handkerchief sachet—Judy crept down in her woolly white dressing-gown, and coaxed the kitchen fire back to life. Then she sat in front of it, on the speckless rag carpet, and nursed Alcibiades and scolded him, and explained that he really must be a good dog, and that we all have something to put up with in this life.
“You know, Alby dear,” she said, “it’s
