One reaches a point, she said with
appalling youthful simplicity, where nothing that concerns one matters
any longer. But something did keep her back. I should have never
guessed what it was. She herself confessed that it seemed absurd to say.
It was the Fyne dog.
Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression and
then went on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely
attached to her. She took it into her head that he might fall over or
jump down after her. She tried to drive him away. She spoke sternly to
him. It only made him more frisky. He barked and jumped about her skirt
in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He scampered away in circles
between the pines charging upon her and leaping as high as her waist. She
commanded, "Go away. Go home." She even picked up from the ground a bit
of a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his delight knew no
bounds; his rushes became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be
having the time of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw
herself down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the
game.
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