By the side of the great square basket set in a corner Anthony fell on his knees. "Why, Patch ..." The little scrap tried gamely to leap for his master, but his strength failed him, and he fell sideways on to the pine shavings. Lyveden gathered him gently into his arms and let him lick his face. "Did you think I was never coming, Patch? Did you think I'd forgotten my little dog? My poor little fellow ... my little boy...." The laboured breathing slipped into a cough, and Lyveden laid the terrier back on the shavings. There he got to his feet and coughed desperately. The exertion seemed to exhaust him, for, when the fit was over, he lay down where he stood, keeping his eyes upon Anthony and now and again moving his little tail. The fair-haired girl, who had gone, reappeared, followed by the grey-headed kennel-man bearing a deck-chair. "I expect you'll like to stay with him for a bit," she said pleasantly. Anthony thanked her, and she left him alone. For Patch's sake, Anthony sat very still. Considering that he had been afoot since half-past five, it is not surprising that after a little space he fell asleep. Queer idiotic fancies bestrode his dreams: what was impossible came naturally to pass: earth became wonderland, and no one wondered. Patch and Miss French lay in sick beds upon respective mantelpieces: Lord Pomfret had come to mend the telephone, and his tool-bag was full of roses--the scent of them filled the room. Anthony himself was forging a two-pound note upon a page of Bradshaw, and was terribly afraid that it would not pass muster: something weighty depended on this, and all the time the scent of the roses was hindering his efforts: it came between him and the paper, so that he could not see: he brushed it away angrily, but it came back.... He awoke suddenly, for no reason. Patch was lying very still, breathing more easily. His eye met Anthony's, and the tip of a red tongue came into view. The faintest suggestion of perfume was in the air. This was so slight and fleeting that Anthony, after a little, charged it to his imagination and thought no more of it. Presently he rose and, setting his hat on the chair, where Patch could see it and so expect his return, strolled out on to the veranda. From the depths of an easy-chair Valerie French lifted her eyes from _The Times_ and smiled very charmingly. "I'm glad you've come out," she said. "I think it's a mistake to sit there too long at a time." That Lyveden felt perfectly at ease with her, and neither started nor spoke constrainedly, is worthy of note. It is, in fact, the best possible evidence that his belief in their affinity was well founded. "You're quite right," he said. "After all, the great thing is to be on the spot. I'm afraid this means that your dog is ill." Valerie looked away. "He's worse than Patch," she said slowly. "I'm awfully sorry."