Part 40 (1/2)

Fury was in her heart at Tony's disobedience, and behind it all a dull ache that Miles should have heard, and doubtless misunderstood, Walter Brooke's last remark.

Tony was talking eagerly as he followed, but she was too upset to listen till suddenly she heard Miles say in a tone of the deepest satisfaction, ”Good old William.”

This was too much.

She stopped and called over her shoulder: ”He isn't good at all; he's a thoroughly tiresome, disobedient, badly-trained dog.”

They came up with her at that, and William rolled over on his back, for he knew those tones portended further punishment.

”He's an a.s.s in lots of ways,” Miles allowed, ”but he is an excellent judge of character.”

And as if in proof of this William righted himself and came cringing to Meg to try and lick the hand that a few minutes ago had thumped him so vigorously.

Meg looked up at Miles and he looked down at her, and his gaze was pained, kind and grave. _His_ eyes were large and well-opened and set wide apart in his broad face. Honest, trustworthy eyes they were.

Very gently he took the little pram from her, for he saw that her hands were trembling: ”You've had a fright,” he said. ”I know what it is. I had a favourite dog run over once. It's horrible, it takes months to get over it. I can't think why dogs are so stupid about motors ... must have been a near shave that ... very decent of Brooke--he's taken pounds off his car with that wrench.”

While Miles talked he didn't look at Meg.

”I say, little Fay,” he suddenly suggested, ”wouldn't you like to walk a bit?” and he lifted her out. ”There, that's better. Now, Miss Morton, you sit down a minute; you've had a shake, you know. I'll go on with the kiddies.”

Meg was feeling a horrible, humiliating desire to cry. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, her knees refused to bear her. Thankfully she sat down on the foot-board of Fay's little pram. The tall figure between the two little ones suddenly grew blurred and dim. Furtively she blew her nose and wiped her eyes. They were not a stone's throw from the lodge at Wren's End.

How absurd to be sitting there!

And yet she didn't feel inclined to move just yet.

”'Ere, my dear, you take a sip o' water; the gentleman's told me all about it. Them sort o' shocks fair turns one over.”

And kind Mrs. Earley was beside her, holding out a thick tumbler. Meg drank the deliciously cold water and arose refreshed.

And somehow the homely comfort of Mrs. Earley's presence made her realise wherein lay the essential difference between these two men.

”He still treats me like a princess,” she thought, ”even though he thinks ... Oh, what _can_ he think?” and Meg gave a little sob.

”There, there!” said Mrs. Earley, ”don't you take on no more, Miss. The dear dog bain't 'urted not a 'air of him. 'E c.u.m frolicking in that friendly--I sometimes wonders if there do be anyone as William 'ud ever bite. 'E ain't much of a watchdog, I fear.”

”He nearly bit someone this afternoon,” Meg said.

”Well, I'm not sorry to yer it. It don't do for man nor beast to be too trustful--not in this world it don't.”

At the drive gate Miles was standing.

Mrs. Earley took the pram with her for Earley to clean, and Meg and Miles walked on together.

”I'm sorry you've had this upset,” he said. ”I've talked to William like a father.”

”It wasn't only William,” Meg murmured.

They were close to the house, and she stopped.