But for that voice, with the permanent cold hoarseness caught beside innumerable graves, Gyp might not have recognized Mr. Wagge, for he had taken off his beard, leaving nothing but side-whiskers, and Mrs. Wagge had filled out wonderfully.  They were some time settling down beside her.

“You sit here, Maria; you won’t get the sun in your eyes.”

“No, Robert; I’ll sit here.  You sit there.”

“No, you sit there.”

“No, I will.  Come, Duckie!”

But the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was gazing at Gyp, while what was left of its broad nose moved from side to side.  Mr. Wagge followed the direction of its glance.

“Oh!” he said, “oh, this is a surprise!” And fumbling at his straw hat, he passed his other hand over his sleeve and held it out to Gyp.  It felt almost dry, and fatter than it had been.  While she was shaking it, the dog moved forward and sat down on her feet.  Mrs. Wagge also extended her hand, clad in a shiny glove.

“This is a—­a—­pleasure,” she murmured.  “Who would have thought of meeting you!  Oh, don’t let Duckie sit against your pretty frock!  Come, Duckie!”

But Duckie did not move, resting his back against Gyp’s shin-bones.  Mr. Wagge, whose tongue had been passing over a mouth which she saw to its full advantage for the first time, said abruptly: 

“You ’aven’t come to live here, ’ave you?”

“Oh no!  I’m only with my father for the baths.”

“Ah, I thought not, never havin’ seen you.  We’ve been retired here ourselves a matter of twelve months.  A pretty spot.”

“Yes; lovely, isn’t it?”

“We wanted nature.  The air suits us, though a bit—­er—­too irony, as you might say.  But it’s a long-lived place.  We were quite a time lookin’ round.”

Mrs. Wagge added in her thin voice: 

“Yes—­we’d thought of Wimbledon, you see, but Mr. Wagge liked this better; he can get his walk, here; and it’s more—­select, perhaps.  We have several friends.  The church is very nice.”

Mr. Wagge’s face assumed an uncertain expression.  He said bluffly: 

“I was always a chapel man; but—­I don’t know how it is—­there’s something in a place like this that makes church seem more—­more suitable; my wife always had a leaning that way.  I never conceal my actions.”

Gyp murmured: 

“It’s a question of atmosphere, isn’t it?”

Mr. Wagge shook his head.

“No; I don’t hold with incense—­we’re not ’Igh Church.  But how are you, ma’am?  We often speak of you.  You’re looking well.”

His face had become a dusky orange, and Mrs. Wagge’s the colour of a doubtful beetroot.  The dog on Gyp’s feet stirred, snuffled, turned round, and fell heavily against her legs again.  She said quietly: 

“I was hearing of Daisy only to-day.  She’s quite a star now, isn’t she?”