‘Well?’ she said, delivering the word like a spear-thrust, with the full weight of a body behind it.

‘I’ve brought Harvey back at last,’ I replied.  ‘Here he is.’

But it was at me she looked, not at the dog who had cast himself at her feet—­looked as though she would have fished my soul out of my breast on the instant.

‘Wha—­what did you think of him?  What did you make of him?’ she panted.  I was too taken aback for the moment to reply.  Her voice broke as she stooped to the dog at her knees.  ’O Harvey, Harvey!  You utterly worthless old devil!’ she cried, and the dog cringed and abased himself in servility that one could scarcely bear to look upon.  I made to go.

‘Oh, but please, you mustn’t!’ She tugged at the car’s side.  ’Wouldn’t you like some flowers or some orchids?  We’ve really splendid orchids, and’—­she clasped her hands—­’there are Japanese goldfish—­real Japanese goldfish, with four tails.  If you don’t care for ’em, perhaps your friends or somebody—­oh, please!’

Harvey had recovered himself, and I realised that this woman beyond the decencies was fawning on me as the dog had fawned on her.

‘Certainly,’ I said, ashamed to meet her eye.  ’I’m lunching at Mittleham, but—­’

‘There’s plenty of time,’ she entreated.  ’What do you think of Harvey?’

‘He’s a queer beast,’ I said, getting out.  ’He does nothing but stare at me.’

‘Does he stare at you all the time he’s with you?’

‘Always.  He’s doing it now.  Look!’

We had halted.  Harvey had sat down, and was staring from one to the other with a weaving motion of the head.

‘He’ll do that all day,’ I said.  ‘What is it, Harvey?’

‘Yes, what is it, Harvey?’ she echoed.  The dog’s throat twitched, his body stiffened and shook as though he were going to have a fit.  Then he came back with a visible wrench to his unwinking watch.

‘Always so?’ she whispered.

‘Always,’ I replied, and told her something of his life with me.  She nodded once or twice, and in the end led me into the house.

There were unaging pitch-pine doors of Gothic design in it; there were inlaid marble mantel-pieces and cut-steel fenders; there were stupendous wall-papers, and octagonal, medallioned Wedgwood what-nots, and black-and-gilt Austrian images holding candelabra, with every other refinement that Art had achieved or wealth had bought between 1851 and 1878.  And everything reeked of varnish.

‘Now!’ she opened a baize door, and pointed down a long corridor flanked with more Gothic doors.  ’This was where we used to—­to patch ’em up.  You’ve heard of us.  Mrs. Godfrey told you in the garden the day I got Harvey given me.  I’—­she drew in her breath—­’I live here by myself, and I have a very large income.  Come back, Harvey.’

He had tiptoed down the corridor, as rigid as ever, and was sitting outside one of the shut doors.  ‘Look here!’ she said, and planted herself squarely in front of me.  ’I tell you this because you—­you’ve patched up Harvey, too.  Now, I want you to remember that my name is Moira.  Mother calls me Marjorie because it’s more refined; but my real name is Moira, and I am in my thirty-fourth year.’