For the ice was broken now,
and the lady was quite at her ease, and simple and human in her
hospitalities.
"This is better than the bun," Julian said.
"I believe you, dear. And yet that bun did me a deal of good that
mornin'."
Her voice became suddenly reflective.
"A deal of good."
"Are you often out at such a time?"
"Not I. But that night I'd--well, I didn't feel like bein' indoors.
There's things--well, there, it don't matter. That toast's done, dearie.
Bring it here, and let me butter it."
Julian brought it, and cut another slice from the loaf. He toasted while
the lady buttered, a fine division of labour which drew them close
together. Jessie, meanwhile, attracted by these pleasant preparations,
hovered about, wriggling in pathetic anxiety to share the good things of
life.
"Anything wrong that night?" Julian said, carelessly.
The lady buttered, like an angry machine.
"Oh no, dearie," she said. "Make haste, or the tea'll be as black as
coal. Jessie, you're a pig! I do spoil her."
Julian called the little dog to him. She came voraciously, her minute and
rat-like body tense with greed.
"She's a pretty dog," he said.
"Yes," the lady rejoined proudly. "She's a show dog. She was give to
me, and I wouldn't part with her for nuts, no, nor for diamonds neither.
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