forth confidence.
The burden of a great loneliness seemed lifted from Myra’s heart.
“Do you always put so much salt on your bread-and-butter?” she said. “And how glad I am to be ‘the person of the moment.’ Only – until this mysterious ‘patient in the neighbourhood’ demands your attention, – you ought to be having a complete holiday, and I must try to forget that I am talking to the greatest nerve specialist of the day, and only realise the pleasure of entertaining so good a friend of Michael’s and my own. Otherwise I should be tempted to consult you; for I really believe, Sir Deryck, for the first time in my life, I am becoming neurotic.”
The doctor did not need to look at his hostess. His practised eye had already noted the thin cheeks; the haunted look; the purple shadows beneath the lovely grey eyes, for which the dark fringes of black eyelashes were not altogether accountable. He leaned forward and looked into the fire.
“If such is really the case,” he said, “that you should be aware of it, is so excellent a symptom, that the condition cannot be serious. But I want you to remember, Lady Ingleby, that I count all my patients, friends; also that my friends may consider themselves at liberty, at any moment, to become my patients. So consult me, if I can be of any use to you.”
The doctor helped himself to more bread-and-butter, folding it with careful precision.
Lady Ingleby held out her hand for his cup, grateful that he did not appear to notice the rush of unexpected tears to her eyes. She busied herself with the urn until she could control her voice; then said, with a rather tremulous laugh: “Ah, thank you! Presently – if I may – I gladly will consult you. Meanwhile, how do you like ‘the scene of the moment’? Do you consider my boudoir improved? Michael made all these alterations before he went away. The new electric lights are a patent arrangement of his own. And had you seen his portrait? A wonderful likeness, isn’t it?”
The doctor looked around him, appreciatively.
“I have been admiring the room, ever since I entered,” he said. “It is charming.” Then he raised his eyes to the picture over the mantelpiece: – the life-sized portrait of a tall, bearded man, with the high brow of the scholar and thinker; the eyes of the mystic; the gentle unruffled expression of the saint. He appeared old enough to be the father of the woman in whose boudoir his portrait was the central object. The artist had painted him in an old Norfolk shooting-suit, leather leggings, hunting-crop in hand, seated in a garden chair, beside a rustic table. Everything in the picture was homely, old, and comfortable; the creases in the suit were old friends; the ancient tobacco pouch on the table was worn and stained. Russet-brown predominated, and the highest light in the painting was the clear blue of those dreamy, musing eyes. They were bent upon the table, where sat, in an expectant attitude of adoring attention, a white toy-poodle. The palpable devotion between the big man and the tiny dog, the concentrated affection with which they looked at one another, were very cleverly depicted. The picture might have been called: “We two”; also it left an impression of a friendship in which there had been no room for a third. The doctor glanced, for an instant, at the lovely woman on the lounge, behind the silver urn, and his subconsciousness propounded the question: “Where did she come in?” But the next moment he turned towards the large armchair on his right, where a small dejected mass of white curls lay in a huddled heap. It was impossible to distinguish between head and tail.
“Is this the little dog?” asked the doctor.
“Yes; that is Peter. But in the picture he is smart and properly clipped, and feeling better than he does just now. Peter and Michael are devoted to each other; and, when Michael is away, Peter is left in my charge. But I am not fond of small dogs; and I really consider Peter very much spoilt. Also I always feel he just tolerates me because I am Michael’s wife, and remains with me because, where I am, there Michael will return. But I am quite kind to him, for Michael’s sake. Only he really is a nasty little dog; and too old to be allowed to continue. Michael always speaks of him as if he were quite too good to live; and, personally, I think it is high time he went where all good dogs go. I cannot imagine what is the matter with him now. Since yesterday afternoon he has refused all his food, and been so restless and fidgety. He always sleeps on Michael’s bed; and, as a rule, after I have put him there, and closed the door between Michael’s room and mine, I hear no more of Peter, until he barks to be let out in the morning, and my maid takes him down-stairs. But last night, he whined and howled for hours. At length I got up, found Michael’s old shooting jacket – the very one in the portrait – and laid it on the bed. Peter crawled into it, and cuddled down, I folded the sleeves around him, and he seemed content. But to-day he still refuses to eat. I believe he is dyspeptic, or has some other complaint, such as dogs develop when they are old. Honestly – don’t you think – a little effective poison, in an attractive pill – ?”
“Oh, hush!” said the doctor. “Peter may not be asleep.”
Lady Ingleby laughed. “My dear Sir Deryck! Do you suppose animals understand our conversation?”
“Indeed I do,” replied the doctor. “And more than that, they do not require the medium of language. Their comprehension is telepathic. They read our thoughts. A nervous rider or driver can terrify a horse. Dumb creatures will turn away from those who think of them with dislike or aversion; whereas a true lover of animals can win them without a spoken word. The thought of love and of goodwill reaches them telepathically, winning instant trust and response. Also, if we take the trouble to do so, we can, to a great extent, arrive at their ideas, in the same way.”
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Lady Ingleby. “Well, I wish you would thought-read what is the matter with Peter. I shall not know how to face Michael’s home-coming, if anything goes wrong with his belovèd dog.”
The doctor lay back in his armchair; crossed his knees the one over the other; rested his elbows on the arms of the chair; then let his finger-tips meet very exactly. Instinctively he assumed the attitude in which he usually sat when bending his mind intently on a patient. Presently he turned and looked steadily at the little white heap curled up in the big armchair.
The room was very still.
“Peter!” said the doctor, suddenly.
Peter sat up at once, and peeped at the doctor, through his curls.
“Poor little Peter,” said the doctor, kindly.
Peter moved to the edge of the chair; sat very upright, and looked eagerly across to where the doctor was sitting. Then he wagged his tail, tapping the chair with quick, anxious, little taps.
“The first wag I have seen in twenty-four hours,” remarked Lady Ingleby; but neither Deryck Brand nor Shockheaded Peter heeded the remark.
The anxious eyes of the dog were gazing, with an agony of question, into the kind keen eyes of the man.
Without moving, the doctor spoke.
“Yes, little Peter,” he said.
Peter’s small tufted tail ceased thumping. He sat very still for a moment; then quietly moved back to the middle of the chair, turned round and round three or four times; then lay down, dropping his head between his paws with one long shuddering sigh, like a little child which has sobbed itself to sleep.
The doctor turned, and looked at Lady Ingleby.
“What does that mean?” queried Myra, astonished.
“Little Peter asked a question,” replied Sir Deryck, gravely; “and I answered it.”
“Wonderful! Will you talk this telepathy over with Michael when he comes
