Turning to Mr. Jackson, she said:  “Such a sad thing happened to-day.  Our dear old dog, Rover, had to be put away.  He was sixteen, very deaf and rather cross, and the Vet. said it wasn’t kind to keep him; and of course after that we felt there was nothing to be said.  The Vet. said he would come this morning at ten o’clock, and it quite spoilt my breakfast, for dear Rover sat beside me and begged, and I felt like an executioner; and then he went out for a walk by himself—­a thing he hadn’t done since he had become frail—­and when the Vet. came there was no Rover.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Jackson, helping himself to an entree.

“The really dreadful thing about it,” continued Mrs. Jowett, refusing the entree, “was that Johnston—­the gardener, you know—­had dug the grave where I had chosen he should lie, dear Rover, and—­you have heard the expression, Mr. Jackson—­a yawning grave?  Well, the grave yawned.  It was too heartrending.  I simply went to my room and cried, and Tim went in one direction and Johnston in another, and the maids looked too, and they found the dear doggie, and the Vet.—­a most obliging man called Davidson—­came back ... and dear Rover is at rest.”

Mrs. Jowett looked sadly round and found that the whole table had been listening to the recital.

Few people have not loved a dog and known the small tragedy of parting with it when its all too short day was over, and even the “lamentable comedy” of Mrs. Jowett’s telling of the tale made no one smile.

Muriel leant forward, genuinely distressed.  “I’m so frightfully sorry, Mrs. Jowett; you’ll miss dear old Rover dreadfully.”

“It’s a beastly business putting away a dog,” said Lewis Elliot.  “I always wish they had the same lease of life as we have.  ’Threescore and ten years do sum up’ ... and it’s none too long for such faithful friends.”

“You must get another, Mrs. Jowett,” her hostess told her bracingly.  “Get a dear little toy Pekinese or one of those Japanese what-do-you-call-’ems that you can carry in your arms:  they are so smart.”

“If you do, Janetta,” her husband warned her, “you must choose between the brute and me.  I refuse to live in the same house with one of those pampered, trifling little beasts.  If we decide to fill old Rover’s place I suggest that we get a rough-haired Irish terrier.”  He rolled the “r’s” round his tongue.  “Something robust that can bark and chase cats, and not lie all day on a cushion, like one of those dashed Chinese ...”  His voice died away in muttered thunder.

Again Mrs. Duff-Whalley reared her head, but Muriel interposed, laughing.  “You mustn’t really be so severe, Mr. Jowett.  I happen to possess two of the ‘trifling beasts,’ and you must come and apologise to them after dinner.  You can’t imagine more perfect darlings, and of course they are called Bing and Toutou.  You won’t be able to resist their little sweet faces—­too utterly darling!”