“Of course I’ll come. But tell me just this one thing.” “What? ‘Fire-dogs?’――‘chenets.’” “‘Chenets?’ Are you sure? You’re awfully clever at those out-of-the-way words!” “It’s not an out-of-the-way word. ‘Chiens de feu’ are the sort of things that’ll be chasing you and O’Brian in the next world.” Owen laughed ruefully, but another question, in spite of his promise, was already hovering on his lips. “Come along,” I said, getting up. “What good does it do worrying over the rotten thing now?” And I tore my paper in two, and let the pieces go fluttering down the path on the wind. CHAPTER XL In the morning Tony’s familiar scratching at my door reminded me that I was home again, and this time for two long, idle months. I was very sleepy, but I struggled out of bed with half-open eyes, and let him in. As I closed the door again, I trod on one of his paws. He gave a sharp yelp, and then a great wagging of his tail to show that he knew it had been an accident. Jumping on to the bed he scrambled between the sheets, and I followed, taking what room he would give me. I lay trying to go to sleep, while he sprawled over me. Then when he had thoroughly wakened me up he went to sleep himself. I lay listening to the sea and thinking of what I should do that day. I would bathe after breakfast; I would take Tony with me, which would mean bathing off the sand, for Tony could not dive, and had a foolish habit, when on the rocks, of trying to lap the sea up to the level he wanted it at. But I had forgotten my plastered head; bathing, I supposed, would be out of the question for at least a week. So, when breakfast was over, I stuffed a book into my jacket pocket, and strolled in the direction of Derryaghy woods. I had the long June day before me, and perfect freedom to do just as I pleased with it. The book I had chosen was “Twelfth Night,” the influence of Count Tolstoy, so far as I was concerned, having suffered an eclipse. I had read no second work by him, and the questionings stirred up by “Anna Karénine” had sunk quietly to sleep. Owen, a day or two ago, had got hold of “Katia,” and “The Kreutzer Sonata,” but I, I regret to say, had not a line of the master’s in my possession.