"Not up to your usual form just yet, eh ?" said Stafford, and he picked it up gently and put it on his knee.
Maude Falconer looked at him.
"Give it to me," she said.

"Men have no lap.

He'll be more comfortable with me." "But he's wet still," he said.

"He'll spoil that pretty dress of yours." "My pretty dress was made to be spoiled," she said, "Give it to me, please, and get your tea." "Do you mean it ?" he asked, with a surprise which made her flush with resentment, and something like shame.
For reply, she bent forward, took the dog from him, and tried to settle it on her lap; but the mite looked piteously at Stafford and whined, its big eyes imploring him to let it come back.
But Stafford stroked it and bade it sit still, and presently it curled itself up.
"It has gone to sleep," said Maude.

"It has soon forgotten its trouble." "It's a way dogs have," said Stafford.