“Sometimes they’re difficult to find,” returned his mother, with an unusual simplicity of manner.

“Yes, but still——­Well, I must be off.”

He stood up and looked at the Indian rug in front of the hearth.

“When are you coming to see us?” he asked.

“Almost directly, dee-ar.”

“That’s right.  Rosamund likes seeing you.  Naturally she depends upon you at such——­” He broke off.  “I mean, do come as often as you can.”

He bent down and kissed his mother.

“By the way,” he added, almost awkwardly, “about that dog?”

“What dog, dee-ar?”

“The dog I want to give you.”

“We must think about it.  Give me time.  After a black pug one doesn’t know all in a moment what type would be the proper successor.  You remember your poor Aunt Binn?”

“Aunt Binn!  Why, what did she do?”

“Gave Uncle Binn a hairless thing like a note of interrogation, that had to sleep in a coating of vaseline, when his enormous sheep-dog died who couldn’t see for hair.  She believed in the value of contrast, but Uncle Binn didn’t.  It would have led to a separation but for the hectic efforts of your aunt’s friend, Miss Vine.  When I’ve decided what type of dog, I’ll tell you.”

Dion understood the negative and, in spite of his feeling of fitness, went away rather uncomfortably.  He couldn’t forget the strange appearance of that emptied woman whom he had taken unawares by the fireside.  If only his mother would let him give her another dog!

When he got home he found Beatrice sitting with Rosamund.

Dion had grown very fond of Beatrice.  He had always been rather touched and attracted by her plaintive charm, but since she had become his sister-in-law he had learnt to appreciate also her rare sincerity and delicacy of mind.  She could not grip life, perhaps, could not mold it to her purpose and desire, but she could do a very sweet and very feminine thing, she could live, without ever being intrusive, in the life of another.  It was impossible not to see how “wrapped up” she was in Rosamund.  Dion had come to feel sure that it was natural to Beatrice to lead her life in another’s, and he believed that Rosamund realized this and often let Beatrice do little things for her which, full of vigor and “go” as she was, she would have preferred to do for herself.

“I’ve been boxing and then to see mother,” he said, as he took Beatrice’s long narrow hand in his.  “She sent her best love to you, Rosamund.”

“The dear mother!” said Rosamund gently.

Dion sat down by Beatrice.

“I’m quite upset by something that’s happened,” he continued.  “You know poor little Omar, Beattie?”

“Yes.  Is he ill?”

“Dead.  He was run over yesterday by a four-wheeler.”

“Oh!” said Beatrice.

“Poor little dog,” Rosamund said, again gently.

“When they picked him up—­are you going, Rose?”