“Oh, I’ll tell old Mack he’ll be lucky to get him,” said Dick, with his pleasant laugh; “you and I will strike the bargain!”

The approach had been pegged out, and Dr. Mangan turned, for the moment, to other subjects.

It was a damp and sodden day near the beginning of September, and a comfortable turf fire centralised and gave point to the room, as a fire inevitably does.  Major Talbot-Lowry was in the habit of saying that the day of the month never warmed anybody yet, and if it was only for the sake of the books—­the truth being that the library fire at Mount Music had never, in the memory of housemaid, been extinguished save only when “the Major was out of home.”  Dick, like most out-of-door men, considered that fresh air should be kept in its proper place, outside the walls of the house, and an ancient atmosphere, in which the varied scents of turf, tobacco, old books, and old hound-couples, all had their share, filled the large, dingy old room.  Dusty and composite squirrel-hoards of objects that defy classification, covered outlying tables, and lay in heaps on the floor, awaiting that resurrection to useful life that Major Talbot-Lowry’s faith held would some day be theirs, and were, in the meantime, the despair and demoralisation of housemaids.

Deep in the bearskin rug in front of the fire (a trophy of one of the rifles that filled a glass-fronted case over the mantel-shelf) lay the two little fox-terriers, Rinka and Tashpy, in moody and determined repose.  For a brief period of suffering they had attempted to cleave to Christian; but as the throng grew, and the time for tea lingered, they had, in high offence, betaken themselves to their ultimate citadel, the library.

“I suppose it was her pup I was raffling awhile ago,” remarked Dr. Mangan, presently, as Rinka languidly rose, and having stretched herself, and yawned, musically and meretriciously, put her nose on his broad knee, deliberating as to whether the distinction of a human lap outweighed the lowly comfort of the bearskin.

“Doggie!  Poor doggie!  Down, now, down!” Dr. Mangan had no idea how to talk to dogs, and he did not wish Rinka to sit on his best grey trousers.

“Hit her a smack!” said Major Dick; “don’t let her bother you.  Christian has spoilt these dogs till they’re perfect nuisances!  Yes, it’s her pup.  Who won it?  It ought to be a clinker; it was the best of the lot—­”

“I d’no did they draw for it yet.  I took three tickets for it myself,” said the Doctor.  “I want it for a sort of a cousin of me own—­a very sporting chap that’s coming to Cluhir; he asked me could I get him a dog.”

“What’s he going to do in Cluhir?” asked Dick, carelessly.

The approach was now clear, and Dr. Mangan began to advance.

“Well, he’s just taken his degree.  He’s a doctor, and he’s coming here for a while.  He can give me a help while he’s looking out for a dispensary.  He’d like some place where he’d get a little hunting now and then.  I expect you know his father, Major—­old Tom Aherne, of Pribawn—­”