Later on they were down in the drawing-room. Mrs. Cole was reading “The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest,” the children grouped about her feet. Jeremy, his rough bullet head against his mother’s dress, was almost asleep. He had had a long, exhausting day; he was happy at last, seeing the colours fold and unfold before his eyes. That other world that was sometimes so strangely close to him mingled with the world of facts—now he was racing in the wagonette, leaning over and shouting triumphantly against those left behind; now the path changed to a pool of gold, and out of it a bronze tower rose solemn to heaven, straight and tall against the blue sky, and the windows of the tower opened and music sounded, and his mother’s voice came back to him like the sudden rushing of the train, and he saw Mary’s spectacles and the flickering fire and Helen’s gleaming shoes.

For the moment he had forgotten Hamlet. The dog lay near the door. It opened, and Aunt Amy came in.

At once the dog was through the door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. This was habit. Something had acted in him before he could stop to think. It was natural for him to be in the kitchen at this hour, when it was brilliantly lit, and the cook and the housemaid and the kitchenmaid were having their last drop of tea.... Always things for him at this moment, sweet things, fat things, meaty things. He sat there, and they dropped bits into his mouth, murmuring “Poor worm,” “Little lamb,” “Sweet pet.”

Mrs. Hounslow was to-night quite especially affectionate, delighted with his return to her. She patted him, pulled him into her ample lap, folded his head against her yet ampler bosom, confided to the maids what that limb of a boy had dared to say to her—“kitchen dog!” indeed. As though it weren’t the finest kitchen in Glebeshire, and who’d looked after the poor animal if she hadn’t—and then—and why—but of course.

The maids agreed, sipping the tea from their saucers.

But Hamlet was not happy. He did not care to-night for Mrs. Hounslow’s embraces. He was not happy. He struggled from her lap on to the floor, and sat there scratching himself.

When ten struck he was taken to his warm corner near the oven. She curled him up, she bent down and kissed him. The lights were turned out, and he was alone. He could not sleep. The loud ticking of the kitchen clock, for so many months a pleasant sleepy sound, to-night disturbed him.

He was not happy. He got up and wandered about the kitchen, sniffing. He went to the door. It was ajar. He pushed it with his nose. Something was leading him. He remembered now—how well he remembered! Up these dark stairs, under that hissing clock, up these stairs again, along that passage, the moon grinning at him through the window (but, of course, he did not know that it was the moon). Up more stairs, along this wall, then this door! He pushed with his nose; it moved; he squeezed himself through.

He hesitated, sniffing. Then—how familiar this was—a spring, and he was on the bed; a step or two, and he was licking his master’s cheek.

A cry: “Hamlet! Oh, Hamlet!” He snuggled under his master’s arm, licking the cheek furiously, planting his paw, but with the nails carefully drawn in, on his master’s neck. Once more that hand was about his head, the scratch first to the left, then to the right, then the pulling of the ears....

With a sigh of satisfaction he sank into the hollow of his master’s body, and in another second was asleep.