‘Mr Desert sent this, miss.’ He held out a note.
Dinny opened the door of the drawing-room.
‘Come in here, please, Stack. Let’s sit down.’
He sat down and let go of the lead. The dog went to her and put his nose on her knee. Dinny read the note.
‘Mr Desert says that I may have Foch.’
Stack bent his gaze on his boots. ‘He’s gone, miss. Went by the early service to Paris and Marseilles.’
She could see moisture in the folds of his cheeks. He gave a loud sniff, and angrily brushed his hand over his face.
‘I’ve been with him fourteen years, miss. It was bound to hit me. He talks of not coming back.’
‘Where has he gone?’
‘Siam.’
‘A long way,’ said Dinny with a smile. ‘ The great thing is that he should be happy again.’
‘That is so, miss. I don’t know if you’d care to hear about the dog’s food. He has a dry biscuit about nine, and shin of beef or sheep’s head, cooked, with crumbled hound-meal, between six and seven, and nothing else. A good quiet dog, he is, perfect gentleman in the house. He’ll sleep in your bedroom if you like.’
‘Do you stay where you are, Stack?’
‘Yes, miss. The rooms are his lordship’s. As I told you, Mr Desert is sudden; but I think he means what he says. He never was happy in England.’
‘I’m sure he means what he says. Is there anything I can do for you, Stack?’
The henchman shook his head, his eyes rested on Dinny’s face, and she knew he was debating whether he dared offer sympathy. She stood up.
‘I think I’ll take Foch a walk and get him used to me.’
‘Yes, miss. I don’t let him off the lead except in the parks. If there’s anything you want to know about him any time, you have the number.’
Dinny put out her hand.
‘Well, good-bye, Stack, and best wishes.’
‘The same to you, miss, I’m sure.’ His eyes had what was more than understanding in them, and the grip of his hand had a spasmodic strength. Dinny continued to smile till he was gone and the door closed, then sat down on the sofa with her hands over her eyes. The dog, who had followed Stack to the door, whined once, and came back to her. She uncovered her eyes, took Wilfrid’s note from her lap, and tore it up.
‘Well, Foch,’ she said, ‘what shall we do? Nice walk?’
The tail moved; he again whined slightly.
‘Come along then, boy.’
She felt steady, but as if a spring had broken. With the dog on the lead she walked towards Victoria Station, and stopped before the statue. The leaves had thickened round it, and that was all the change. Man and horse, remote, active, and contained – ‘workmanlike’! A long time she stood there, her face raised, dry-eyed, thin and drawn; and the dog sat patiently beside her.
Then, with a shrug, she turned away and led him rapidly towards the Park. When she had walked some time, she went to Mount Street and asked for Sir Lawrence. He was in his study.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘that looks a nice dog; is he yours?’
‘Yes. Uncle Lawrence, will you do something for me?’
‘Surely.’
‘Wilfrid has gone. He went this morning. He is not coming back. Would you be so very kind as to let my people know, and Michael, and Aunt Em, and Uncle Adrian. I don’t want ever to have to speak of it.’
Sir Lawrence inclined his head, took her hand and put it to his lips. ‘There was something I wanted to show you, Dinny.’ He took from his table a little statuette of Voltaire. ‘I picked that up two days ago. Isn’t he a delightful old cynic? Why the French should be so much pleasanter as cynics than other people is mysterious, except, of course, that cynicism, to be tolerable, must have grace and wit; apart from those, it’s just bad manners. An English cynic is a man with a general grievance. A German cynic is a sort of wild boar. A Scandinavian cynic is a pestilence. An American jumps around too much to make a cynic, and a Russian’s state of mind is not constant enough. You might get a perfectly good cynic in Austria, perhaps, or northern China – possibly it’s a question of latitude.’
Dinny smiled.
‘Give my love to Aunt Em, please. I’m going home this afternoon.’
‘God bless you, my dear,’ said Sir Lawrence. ‘Come here, or to Lippinghall, whenever you want; we love having you.’ And he kissed her forehead.
When she had gone, he went to the telephone, and then sought his wife.
‘Em, poor Dinny has just been here. She looks like a smiling ghost. It’s all over. Desert went off for good this morning. She doesn’t want ever to speak of it. Can you remember that?’