Cairns laughed and, walking up to her, dropped Snoo on her lap and Poo, snuffling ferociously, on the floor. Victoria buried her hands in Snoo's thick coat; the dog gurgled joyfully and rolled over on its side. Victoria laughed, muzzling Snoo with her hand. Cairns watched the picture for, a moment. He was absurdly reminded of a girl in Java who nursed a black marmoset against her yellow breast. And as Victoria looked up at him, her chin now resting on Snoo's brown head, a soft wave of scent rose towards him. He knelt down, throwing his arms round her and the dog, gathering them both into his embrace. As his lips met hers and clung to them, her perfume and the ranker scent of the dog filled his nostrils, burning aphrodisiac into his brain. Victoria freed herself gently and rose to her feet, still nursing Snoo, and laughingly pushed him into Cairns's face. 'Kiss him,' she said, 'no favours here.' Cairns obeyed, then picked up Poo and sat down on the couch. 'This is sweet of you, Tom,' said Victoria. 'They _are_ lovebirds.' 'I'm glad you like them; this is Poo I'm holding, yours is Snoo.' 'Odd names,' said Victoria. 'Chinese according to the dealer,' said Cairns, 'but I don't pretend to know what they mean.' 'Never mind,' said Victoria, 'they're lovebirds, and so are you, Tom.' Cairns looked at her silently, at her full erect figure and smiling eyes. He was a lucky beggar, a damned lucky beggar. 'And what is this bribe for?' she asked. 'Oh, nothing. Knew you'd like them, beastly tempers and as game as mice. Women's dogs, you know.' 'Generalising again, Tom. Besides I hate mice.' Cairns drew her down by his side on the couch. Everything in this woman interested and stimulated him. She was always fresh, always young. The touch of her hand, the smell of her hair, the feel of her skirts winding round his ankles, all that was magic; every little act of hers was a taking of possession. Every time he mirrored his face in her eyes and saw the eyelids slowly veil and unveil them, something like love crept into his soul. But every passionate embrace left him weak and almost repelled. She was his property; he had paid for her; and, insistent thought, what would she have done if he had not been rich? Half an hour passed away. Victoria lay passive in his arms. Snoo and Poo, piled in a heap, were snuffling drowsily. There was a ring at the front door, then a slam. They could hear voices. They started up. 'Who the deuce . . . .?' said Cairns. Then they heard someone in the dining-room beyond the door. There was a knock at the door of the boudoir. 'Come in,' said Victoria. Mary entered. Her placid eyes passed over the Major's tie which had burst out of his waistcoat, Victoria's tumbled hair. 'Mr Wren, mum,' she said. Victoria staggered. Her hands knotted themselves together convulsively. 'Good God,' she whispered. 'Who is it? What does he want? What name did you say?' asked Cairns. Victoria's excitement was infecting him.