Her little Pomeranian rubbed against her feet in vain.

Yet at the sound of Mr.
Fentolin's voice, she seemed to come back to herself as though by magic.
"I was looking where you were looking," she declared lightly, "just trying to see a little way beyond.

So silly, isn't it?
Chow-Chow, you bad little dog, come and you shall have your dinner." She strolled off, humming a tune to herself.

Lord Saxthorpe watched her with a shadow upon his plain, good-humoured face.
"Somehow or other," he remarked quietly, "Mrs.Fentolin never seems to have got over the loss of her husband, does she?
How long is it since he died ?" "Eight years," Mr.Fentolin replied.

"It was just six months after my own accident." "I am losing a great deal of sympathy for you, Mr.Fentolin," Lady Saxthorpe confessed, coming over to his side.