It was dusk when he wakened. Lady Aileen’s callers had departed some time ago, and Lady Aileen herself had departed to take a twilight drive, which was a thing she was fond of doing. The servants were enjoying themselves in their own fashion in the kitchen, and all the house seemed very quiet. It seemed so still to Piccino when he slipped off his chair and stood on his feet rubbing his eyes, that for a moment he felt a little frightened. He was so accustomed to living in a hovel crowded with children and only partitioned off from the donkey, that Lady Aileen’s villa seemed enormous to him. It was not enormous, but it seemed so. He looked round him and listened. “Nobody is here!” he said. “Everybody has gone away. Nicola has gone away.” He certainly did not want Nicholson, but his sense of desolation overwhelmed him. And then, as he stood there, there came a sound which seemed to alter everything. It came through the window, which was open, and which he ran towards at once. It was the voice of the friend who had come to him the night before—the dog who lived in the fine kennel at the gate, and wanted human things so much, and was so unhappy. Piccino listened to him a moment, and his breath began to come quickly. He turned round and went to the door. It was not locked—Nicholson had not thought of that. It was easy enough to open, and when he had opened it he made his way quickly towards the stairs. He did not go out at the big front door at which he had been brought in. That was shut, and he knew he was too little to open it, but he remembered the side entrance into the garden, out of which he had slipped when he went to the girl who looked like Maria. He found it again and passed through it, and was out among the flowers in a moment, running quickly down the broad drive to the gate. How the dog jumped and yelped and covered him with caresses when he reached the kennel! He knew his small bed-fellow again well enough. Perhaps, too, he liked the fragrance of the garlic, which was still as perceptible as ever. The two embraced and rubbed against each other, and tumbled affectionately about, until Piccino was quite dirty enough for the bathtub again. But there was to be no more bathtub if he could help it. He wanted the dog to come with him, though, and help him to find his way; and he fumbled and struggled with the chain and collar until his friend was loose, and, finding that nothing held him, began to race up and down in breathless rapture and run in circles, darting like a wild thing. “Come,” said Piccino, “come with me. I am going home.”