"Inside of two weeks, I hope," said John. "Hammond has had these influenza attacks before. They never last long. Have you seen Reuben's leash anywhere?"
Aline Ellison uttered a cry of anguish.
"Oh, you aren't taking Reuben, Mr. Barton! You can't! You mustn't! Mr. Keith, don't let him. Come to auntie, Reuben, darling. Mr. Barton, if you take my precious Reuben away I'll never speak to you again."
John looked at her, and gulped.
He cleared his throat.
What he wanted to say was: "Miss Ellison, your lightest wish is law. I love you—not with the weak two-by-four imitation of affection such as may be offered to you by certain knock-kneed members of the Peerage, but with a great, broad, deep, throbbing love such as the world has never known. Take Reuben. You have my heart, my soul; shall I deny you a dog? Take Reuben. And when you look upon him, think, if but for a moment, of one who, though far away, is thinking, thinking always of you. Miss Ellison, good-bye!"
What he said was: "Er, I"
And that, mind you, was pretty good going for John.
"Oh, thank you!" cried Aline. "Thank you so much, Mr. Barton. It's perfectly sweet of you, and I'll take such care of him. I won't let him out of my sight for a minute."
"…" said John, brightly.
Mathematicians among my readers do not need to be informed that "…" is the algebraical sign representing a blend of wheeze, croak, and hiccough.
And the motor rolled off.
It was about an hour later that Lord Bertie Fendall, finding Aline seated under the shade of the trees, came to a halt beside her.
"Barton went off in the car just now, didn't he?" he inquired, casually.
"Yes," said Aline.
Lord Bertie drew a deep breath of relief. At last he could walk abroad without the feeling that at any moment that infernal dog might charge out at him from round the next corner. With a light heart he dropped into a chair beside Aline, and began to buzz.
"Do you know, Miss Ellison"
A short cough immediately behind him made him look round. His voice trailed off. His eyeglass fell with a jerk and bounded on the end of its cord. He sprang to his feet.
"Oh, there you are, Reuben," said Aline. "Here, come here. What have you been doing to your nose? It's all muddy. Aren't you fond of dogs, Lord Herbert? I love them."
"Eh? I beg your pardon?" said his lordship, revolving warily on his own axis, as the animal lumbered past him. "Oh, yes. Yes. That is to say—oh, yes. Very."
Aline was removing the mud from Reuben's nose with the corner of her pocket-handkerchief.
"Don't you think you can generally tell a man's character by whether dogs take to him or not? They have such wonderful instinct."
"Wonderful," agreed his lordship, meeting Reuben's rolling eye and looking hastily away.
"Mr. Barton was going to take Reuben with him, but that would have been silly for such a short while, wouldn't it?"
"Yes. Oh, yes," said Lord Bertie. "I suppose," he went on, "he will spend most of his time in the stables and so on, don't you know? Not in the house, I mean, don't you know, what?"
"The idea!" cried Aline, indignantly. "Reuben's not a stable dog. I'm never going to let him out of my sight."
"No?" said Lord Bertie a little feverishly. "No? Oh, no. Quite so."
"There!" said Aline, giving Reuben a push. "Now you're tidy. What were you saying, Lord Herbert?"
Reuben moved a step forward, and wheezed slightly.
"Excuse me, Miss Ellison," said his lordship. "I've just recollected an important—there's a good old boy!—an important letter I meant to have written. Excuse me!"
The announcement of his proposed departure may have been somewhat abrupt, but at any rate no fault could be found with his manner of leaving. It was ceremonious in the extreme. He moved out of her presence backwards, as if she had been royalty.
Aline saw him depart with a slightly aggrieved feeling. She had been in the mood for company. For some reason which she could not define she was conscious of quite a sensation of loneliness. It was absurd to think that John's departure could have caused this. And yet somehow it did leave a blank. Perhaps it was because he was so big and silent. You grew used to his being there just as you grew used to the scenery, and you missed him when he was gone. That was all. If Nelson's column were removed, one would feel lonely in Trafalgar Square.
