"I wonder whether you could stand, my little man," he said, and he put
the terrier on the ground.
It stood upright and shivering for a moment, then it put its tiny paws
on Stafford's knee and looked up into his face appealingly. "Not up to
your usual form just yet, eh?" said Stafford, and he picked it up
gently and put it on his knee.
Maude Falconer looked at him.
"Give it to me," she said. "Men have no lap. He'll be more comfortable
with me."
"But he's wet still," he said. "He'll spoil that pretty dress of
yours."
"My pretty dress was made to be spoiled," she said, "Give it to me,
please, and get your tea."
"Do you mean it?" he asked, with a surprise which made her flush with
resentment, and something like shame.
For reply, she bent forward, took the dog from him, and tried to settle
it on her lap; but the mite looked piteously at Stafford and whined,
its big eyes imploring him to let it come back.
But Stafford stroked it and bade it sit still, and presently it curled
itself up.
"It has gone to sleep," said Maude. "It has soon forgotten its
trouble."
"It's a way dogs have," said Stafford.
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