Suddenly there broke on the still autumn air the distant sound of sharp barks and piteous whines.  Much against his will, the little boy had had to bow to the edict that Flick should be shut up in the stable.  Dolly, who so seldom bothered about anything, had seen to this herself, because Mrs. Crofton, who was coming to supper, hated dogs.  Timmy inhospitably hoped that the new tenant of The Trellis House would very seldom honour Old Place with a visit.  It would be impossible for them always to hide Flick away like this!

He moved further into the pretty, old-fashioned room.  Like most old-fashioned country drawing-rooms of the kind, it was rather over-full of furniture and ornaments.  The piano jutted out at right angles to a big, roomy sofa, which could, at a pinch, hold seven or eight people, the pinch usually being when, for the benefit of Timmy, the sofa was supposed to be a stage coach of long ago on its way to London.  The Tosswills had been great people for private theatricals, charades, and so on—­Timmy’s own mother being a really good actress and an excellent mimic, but she did not often now indulge in an exhibition of her powers.

At last Timmy looked round at the clock.  It was ten minutes to eight, and his mother would not be down for another five minutes.  So he went back to the window.  All at once he saw in the gathering twilight, two people walking up the avenue which led to the house.  The little boy felt surprised.  “Who can they be?” was his immediate thought.

As far as he could make out the one was an elderly-looking gentleman—­Timmy could just see the rough grey Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers—­by whose side there walked, sedately, a wire-haired terrier.  What an extraordinary thing!  Surely that dog, walking by the stranger, was Flick—­Flick, having escaped from the stable, and behaving for all the world as if the stranger were his master.  But again there fell on his ears Flick’s distant squeals of anger and annoyance and he felt a queer sensation of relief.

Timmy turned his attention to the other figure, that of the young lady who, dressed all in black, tripped gracefully along by the side of her companion.  Evidently some tiresome old gentleman, and his equally tiresome daughter.  He told himself crossly that his absent-minded, kind-hearted father, or his incurably hospitable mother, forgetting all about Mrs. Crofton, had asked these two people in to supper.  If that was so, Timmy, who was as much at home in the kitchen as in the drawing-room, knew that there would not be quite enough to go round comfortably.  This was all the more irritating, as he himself was looking forward to-night to tasting, for the first time, an especially delicious dish.  This was lobster pie, for which Old Place had been famed before the War, but which, owing to the present price of lobsters, was among the many delightful things which the War had caused to vanish from poor little Timmy’s world.  One of the few sensible people in the world who know what other people really like in the way of a present had sent by parcels-post a lot of lobsters to Timmy’s mother—­hence the coming lobster pie to-night.