“That she a-barkin’?” he inquired, with a professional air.

Cuckoo nodded again.

“A nice little pype,” he rejoined.  “This wy, is it?”

The patter of feet in the oil-clothed passage roused Jessie to a frenzied excitement.  When the two opened the door of the sitting-room, the little creature, planted tree-like upon her four tiny feet, was barking her dog life into the air.  Cuckoo, entering first, snatched her up and gave her a sudden, vehement kiss.

It was good-bye.

Then she turned and faced the old man, who had paused in the doorway.  She held Jessie silently towards him.  Transferring the strings held in his right hand to his left, he took the wriggling dog from Cuckoo, lifted her up and down as if considering her weight, ran his eyes over her points with the quick decision of knowledge.

“’Ardly a show dawg, lydy,” he said.

Cuckoo flamed at him.

“She is, she is,” she cried vehemently, all her passion trying to find a vent in the words.  “You shan’t have her, you shan’t have her, you shan’t if—­”

“Neow, neow; I ain’t sying nothink ag’in ’er,” he interposed.  “She’s a pretty dawg, a very pretty dawg.  ’Ow much do yer sy, lydy?”

Cuckoo sickened.  She looked away.  She could not have met the eyes of Jessie at that moment.

“’Ow much, then?” repeated the old man, still weighing the whining Jessie up and down.

“I dunno; you say.”

The old man mentioned a price.  It was bigger than Cuckoo had expected.  She nodded, moving her tongue across her lips.  Then she looked away out of the window.  She heard the chink of money.

“Put it on the table,” she murmured.

He did so, looking steadily at her.

“You feels the parting, lydy,” he began.  “Very nat’ral, very.  I knows what it is.”

He extended Jessie, now whining furiously, towards Cuckoo.

“Want to sy good-bye, lydy?” he said.

Cuckoo shook her head.  The old man popped Jessie into one of the capacious side-pockets of his coat and buttoned the flap down.

“Mornin’, lydy,” he said, turning towards the door.

Cuckoo made no reply.  Her chest was heaving and her lips were working.  The old man went out.  Cuckoo heard the pattering feet of the little army of dogs on the oilcloth of the passage.  The hall door opened and shut.  A pause.  The iron gate clicked.  She had never moved.  The money lay on the table.  At last Cuckoo went out into the passage, and called in a strange voice: 

“Mrs. Brigg.”

The landlady came with hasty alacrity.

“Come here,” said Cuckoo, leading the way into the sitting-room.  “There—­there’s some money for you.”

Mrs. Brigg pounced on it with a vulture’s eagerness.

“’Owever did yer—­” she began.

But Cuckoo had rushed into the bedroom.  The landlady stood with the money in her hand, and heard the key turned in the lock of the door.