“We’ll leave you to your wine, dear. Smither, my shawl, please.”

Upstairs in the drawing-room there was grave silence. Aunt Juley was trying to still her fluttering nerves; Aunt Hester trying to pretend that nothing had happened; Aunt Ann, upright and a little grim, trying to compress the Riot Act with her thin and bloodless lips. She was not thinking of herself, but of the immutable order of things, so seriously compromised.

Aunt Juley repeated, suddenly: “He followed me, Ann.”

“Without an intro—Without your inviting him?”

“I spoke to him, because he was lost.”

“You should think before you speak. Dogs take advantage.”

Aunt Juley’s face mutinied. “Well, I’m glad,” she said, “and that’s flat. Such a how-de-do!”

Aunt Ann looked pained. A considerable time passed. Aunt Juley began playing solitaire—she played without presence of mind, so that extraordinary things happened on the board. Aunt Ann sat upright, with her eyes closed; and Aunt Hester, after watching them for some minutes to see if they would open, took from under her cushion a library volume, and hiding it behind a firescreen, began to read—it was volume two and she did not yet know ‘Lady Audley’s’ secret: of course it WAS a novel, but, as Timothy had said, ‘Better the day, better the deed.’

The clock struck three. Aunt Ann opened her eyes, Aunt Hester shut her book. Aunt Juley crumpled the solitaire balls together with a clatter. There was a knock on the door, for not belonging to the upper regions, like Smither, Cook always knocked.

“Come in!”

Still in her pink print frock, Cook entered, and behind her entered the dog, snowy white, with its coat all brushed and bushy, its manner and its tail now cocky and now deprecating. It WAS a moment! Cook spoke:

“I’ve brought it up, miss; it’s had its dinner, and it’s been washed. It’s a nice little dear, and taken quite a fancy to me.”

The three Aunts sat silent with their eyes now on the dog, now on the legs of the furniture.

“‘Twould ‘ave done your ’eart good to see it eat, miss. And it answers to the name of Pommy.”

“Fancy!” said Aunt Hester, with an effort. She did so hate things to be awkward.

Aunt Ann leaned forward; her voice rose firm, if rather quavery.

“It doesn’t belong to us, Cook; and your master would never permit it. Smither shall go with it to the Police Station.”

As if struck by the words, the dog emerged from Cook’s skirt and approached the voice. It stood in a curve and began to oscillate its tail very slightly; its eyes, like bits of jet, gazed up. Aunt Ann looked down at it; her thin veined hands, as if detached from her firmness, moved nervously over her glacé skirt. From within Aunt Juley emotion was emerging in one large pout. Aunt Hester was smiling spasmodically.

“Them Police Stations!” said Cook. “I’m sure it’s not been accustomed. It’s not as if it had a collar, miss.”

“Pommy!” said Aunt Juley.

The dog turned at the sound, sniffed her knees, and instantly returned to its contemplation of Aunt Ann, as though it recognised where power was seated. “It’s really rather sweet!” murmured Aunt Hester, and not only the dog looked at Aunt Ann. But at this moment the door was again opened.

“Mr. Swithin Forsyte, miss,” said the voice of Smither.

Aunts Juley and Hester rose to greet their brother; Aunt Ann, privileged by seventy-eight years, remained seated. The family always went to Aunt Ann, not Aunt Ann to the family. There was a general feeling that dear Swithin had come providentially, knowing as he did all about horses.

“You can leave the little dog for the moment, Cook. Mr. Swithin will tell us what to do.”

Swithin, who had taken his time on the stairs which were narrow, made an entry. Tall, with his chest thrown forward, his square face puffy pale, his eyes light and round, the tiny grey imperial below his moustached lips gave to him the allure of a master of ceremonies, and the white dog, retreating to a corner, yapped loudly.

“What’s this?” said Swithin. “A dog?”

So might one entering a more modern drawing-room, have said: “What’s this—a camel?”

Repairing hastily to the corner, Aunt Juley admonished the dog with her finger. It shivered slightly and was silent. Aunt Ann said:

“Give dear Swithin his chair, Hester; we want your advice, Swithin. This little dog followed Juley home this morning—he was lost.”

Swithin seated himself with his knees apart, thus preserving the deportment of his body and the uncreased beauty of his waistcoat. His Wellington boots showed stiff beneath his almost light blue trousers. He said:

“Has Timothy had a fit?”

Dear Swithin—he was so droll!

“Not yet,” said Aunt Hester, who was sometimes almost naughty.

“Well, he will. Here, Juley, don’t stand there stuck. Bring the dog out, and let’s have a look at it. Dog! Why, it’s a bitch!”

This curiously male word, though spoken with distinction, caused a sensation such as would have accompanied a heavy fall of soot. The dog had been assumed by all to be of the politer sex, because of course one didn’t notice such things. Aunt Juley, indeed, whom past association with Septimus Small had rendered more susceptible, had conceived her doubts, but she had continued to be on the polite side.

“A bitch,” repeated Swithin; “you’ll have no end of trouble with it.”

“That is what we fear,” said Aunt Ann, “though I don’t think you should call it that in a drawing-room, dear.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Swithin. “Come here, little tyke!”

And he stretched out a ringed hand smelling of dogskin—he had driven himself round in his phaeton.

Encouraged by Aunt Juley, the little dog approached, and sat cowering under the hand. Swithin lifted it by the ruff round its neck.

“Well-bred,” he said, putting it down.

“We can’t keep it,” said Aunt Ann, firmly. “The carpets—we thought—the Police Station.”

“If I were you,” said Swithin, “I’d put a notice in The Times: ‘Found, white Pomeranian bitch. Apply, The Nook, Bayswater Road.’ You might get a reward. Let’s look at its teeth.”

The little dog, who seemed in a manner fascinated by the smell of Swithin’s hand and the stare of his round china-blue eyes, put no obstacle in the way of fingers that raised its upper and depressed its lower lip.

“It’s a puppy,” said Swithin. “Loo, loo, little tyke!”

This terrible incentive caused the dog to behave in a singular manner; depressing its tail so far as was possible, it jumped sideways and scurried round Aunt Hester’s chair, then crouched with its chin on the ground, its hindquarters and tail in the air, looking up at Swithin with eyes black as boot-buttons.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Swithin, “if it was worth money. Loo, loo!”

This time the little dog scurried round the entire room, avoiding the legs of chairs by a series of miracles, then, halting by a marqueterie stand, it stood on its hind legs and began to eat the pampas grass.

“Ring, Hester!” said Aunt Ann. “Ring for Smither. Juley, stop it!”

Swithin, whose imperial was jutting in a fixed smile, said:

“Where’s Timothy? I should like to see it bite his legs.”

Aunt Juley, moved by maternal spasms, bent down and picked the dog up in her arms. She stood, pouting over its sharp nose and soft warm body, like the very figure of daring with the smell of soft soap in its nostrils.

“I will take it downstairs myself,” she said; “it shan’t be teased. Come, Pommy!”

The dog, who had no say whatever in the matter, put out a pink strip of tongue and licked her nose. Aunt Juley had the exquisite sensation of being loved; and, hastily, to conceal her feelings, bore it lolling over her arm away. She bore it upstairs, instead of down, to her room which was at the back of dear Ann’s, and stood, surrounded by mahogany, with the dog still in her arms. Every hand was against her and the poor dog, and she squeezed it tighter. It was panting, and every now and then with its slip of a tongue it licked her cheek, as if to assure itself of reality. Since the departure of Septimus Small ten years ago, she had never been properly loved, and now that something was ready to love her, they wanted to take it away. She sat down on her bed, still holding the dog, while below, they would be talking of how to send Pommy to the Police Station or put her into the papers! Then, noticing that white hairs were coming off on to her, she put the dog down. It sidled round the room, sniffing, till it came to the washstand, where it stood looking at her and panting. What DID it want? Wild thoughts passed through Aunt Juley’s mind, till suddenly the dog stood on its hind legs and licked the air. Why, it was thirsty! Disregarding the niceties of existence, Aunt Juley lifted the jug, and set it on the floor. For some minutes there was no sound but lapping. Could it really hold all that? The little dog looked up at her, moved its tail twice, then trotted away to inspect the room more closely. Having inspected everything except Aunt Juley, concerning whom its mind was apparently made up, it lay down under the valance of the dressing table, with its head and forepaws visible, and uttered a series of short spasmodic barks. Aunt Juley understood them to mean: ‘Come and play with me!’ And taking her sponge-bag, she dangled it. Seizing it—So unexpected!—the little dog shook it violently. Aunt Juley was at once charmed and horrified. It was evidently feeling quite at home; but her poor bag! Oh! its little teeth WERE sharp and strong! Aunt Juley swelled. It was as if she didn’t care what happened to the bag so long as the little dog were having a good time. The bag came to an end; and gathering up the pieces, she thought defiantly: ‘Well, it’s not as if I ever went to Brighton now!’ But she said severely: