At this moment Blink, whose instinct had long been aware of some sinister purpose in this tall and heavy man, whose trousers did not smell of dogs, seeing him approach too near, bit him gently in the calf.

The nephew started back.  “She’s bitten me!” he said, in a hushed voice.

“My God!” ejaculated Mr. Lavender and falling back again, so stiff was he.  “Is it possible?  There must be some good reason.  Blink!”

Blink wagged her little tail, thrust her nose into his hand, removed it, and growled again.

“She is quite well, I assure you,” Mr. Lavender added hastily, “her nose is icy.”

“She’s bitten me,” repeated the nephew, pulling up his trouser leg.  “There’s no mark, but she distinctly bit me.”

“Treasure!” said Mr. Lavender, endeavouring to interest him in the dog.  “Do you notice how dark the rims of her eyes are, and how clear the whites?  Extraordinarily well bred.  Blink!”

Aware that she was being talked of Blink continued to be torn between the desire to wag her tail and to growl.  Unable to make up her mind, she sighed heavily and fell on her side against her side against her master’s legs.

“Wonderful with sheep, too,” said Mr. Lavender; “at least, she would be if they would let her....  You should see her with them on the Heath.  They simply can’t bear her.”

“You will hear from me again,” said the nephew sourly.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Lavender.  “I shall be glad of a proof; it is always safer, I believe.”

“Good morning,” said the nephew.

Blink, who alone perceived the dark meaning in these words, seeing him move towards the door began to bark and run from side to side behind him, for all the world as if he had been a flock of sheep.

“Keep her off!” said the nephew anxiously.  “Keep her off.  I refuse to be bitten again.”

“Blink!” called Mr. Lavender in some agony.  Blink, whose obedience was excessive, came back to him at once, and stood growling from under her master’s hand, laid on the white hair which flowed back from her collar, till the nephew’s footsteps had died away.  “I cannot imagine,” thought Mr. Lavender, “why she should have taken exception to that excellent journalist.  Perhaps he did not smell quite right?  One never knows.”

And with her moustachioed muzzle pressed to his chin Mr. Lavender sought for explanation in the innocent and living darkness of his dog’s eyes....

On leaving Mr. Lavender’s the nephew forthwith returned to the castle in Frognal, and sought his aunt.

“Mad as a March hare, Aunt Rosie; and his dog bit me.”

“That dear doggie?”

“They’re dangerous.”

“You were always funny about dogs, dear,” said his aunt soothingly.  “Why, even Sealey doesn’t really like you.”  And calling to the little low white dog she quite failed to attract his attention.  “Did you notice his dress.  The first time I took him for a shepherd, and the second time—–!  What do you think ought to be done?”