He went in at the side door, and descended, with rather jerky movements, the short flight of steps leading to the basement. He was too dazed by the buzzing in his head to notice the sound of voices in the washroom, and, even when he had opened the door, he did not at once perceive that it was occupied. However, as he stood blinking in the warm, steamy atmosphere, he gradually made out the figures of his brothers. Piers was kneeling beside a large tin bathtub in which a spaniel drooped, wet and shivering, its face looking pathetically wan and meek with all the fluffy hair lathered down. Standing braced against the hand basin was Renny, pipe in mouth, directing the operations, and perched on a step-ladder was little Wakefield, eating a chocolate bar.
Finch hesitated, but it was too late to retreat—all three had seen him. He entered slowly and closed the door behind him. For a space no one paid any attention to him. Renny laid his pipe on the window-sill, snatched up a bucket of clear water, and poured it over the dog, Piers slithering his hands up and down its body to rinse away the lather.
"Good boy, now!" cried Wakefield. "Up, Merlin, up!"
The spaniel, released, straddled on the brick floor a moment, then shook himself mightily, sending a shower of drops in all directions.
"Hi! Hi!" shouted Wakefield. "You're drowning us!"
Renny tossed a bath towel to Piers, who, his shirt sleeves rolled up on his white, muscular arms, began vigorously to rub the dog dry.
Renny turned suddenly and looked at Finch.
