Alcibiades gave her a reproachful look, and lay down.
The stranger smiled; a very jolly smile, Judy thought.
“Ripping little beast, isn’t he?” said the stranger.
“I suppose you’re invalided home?” she said. She couldn’t help it. A man in the Service. One who had been quartered at Maidstone, her own dear Maidstone. He was no longer a stranger.
“Yes,” he said; “beastly bore. But I shall be all right in two or three months; I hope the fighting won’t be all over by then.”
“Have you sold this gentleman anything?” said the Aunt firmly, “because Mrs Biddle wants to look at some d’oyleys.”
“I’m just selling something,” answered Judy. Then she turned to him and spoke softly. “I say, do you really like dogs?” said she.
“Of course I do.” The young man opened surprised grey eyes at her, as who should say: “Now, do I look like a man who doesn’t like dogs?”
“Well, then,” she said, “Alcibiades is for sale.”
“Is that his name? Why?”
