Hostess and guest sat down on the big, roomy sofa, while Timmy moved away and opened a book.  He was afraid lest his mother should invite him to leave the room, for he wanted to hear what they were saying.  Timmy always enjoyed hearing grown-up people’s conversation, especially when they had forgotten that he was present.  All at once his sharp ears heard Mrs. Crofton’s low, melodious voice asking the question he had been half-expecting her to ask:  “Do you expect Mr. Radmore soon?”

“Yes, he’s coming down on Friday.”  There was a pause, then Timmy heard his mother say:  “Have you known Godfrey Radmore long?”

Janet really wanted to know.  Somehow, she found it difficult to imagine a friendship between Godfrey and this little fribble of a woman.  But as to that, Janet Tosswill showed less than her usual intelligence.  She still thought of Godfrey Radmore as of the rather raw, awkward, though clear-headed and determined lad of twenty-three—­the Radmore, that is, of nine years ago.

“My husband and I first met him in Egypt,” said Mrs. Crofton hesitatingly.  The delicate colour in her cheeks deepened.  “One day he began to talk about himself, and he told me about Beechfield, what a beautiful village it was, how devoted he was to you all!”

Janet Tosswill glanced at the clock.  “It’s already five minutes past eight!” she exclaimed.  “I must go and hurry my young people—­their father likes them to be absolutely punctual.  The gong will go in a minute.”

After his mother had left the room, Timmy crept up close to the sofa, and so suddenly appeared, standing with his hands behind his back, before the visitor.  She felt just a little startled; she had not known the strange-looking boy was still there.  Then she told herself quickly that this surely must be Godfrey Radmore’s godson—­the child to whom he had sent one of her late husband’s puppies.

There came over pretty Mrs. Crofton a slight feeling of apprehension and discomfiture—­she could not have told why.

“When did you last see my godfather?” he asked abruptly, in an unchildish voice, and with a quaintly grown-up manner.

“Your godfather?” she repeated hesitatingly, and yet she knew quite well who he meant.

“I mean Major Radmore,” he explained.

She wondered why the disagreeable little fellow had asked such an indiscreet question.

Then, reluctantly, she made up her mind she had better answer it truly:  “I saw him the day before yesterday.”  She forced herself to go on lightly.  “I suppose you’re the young gentleman to whom he sent a puppy last year?”

He nodded, and then asked another disconcerting question:  “Did you leave your dog outside?  Dolly thought you didn’t like dogs, so my terrier, Flick, has been shut up in the stable.  I suppose you only like your own dog—­I’m rather like that, too.”

“I haven’t got a dog,” she answered nervously.  “It’s quite true that I don’t like dogs—­or, rather, I should like them if they liked me, but they don’t.”