Then he felt something against his calf. And it was Carlo’s nose. Carlo was a large, very shaggy and unkempt Northern terrier, but owing to vagueness of his principal points, due doubtless to a vagueness in his immediate ancestry, it was impossible to decide whether he had come from the north or the south side of the Tweed. This aging friend of Edward Henry’s, surmising that something unusual was afoot in his house, and having entirely forgotten the trifling episode of the bite, had unobtrusively come to make enquiries. "Poor old boy!" said Edward Henry, stooping to pat the dog. "Did they try to measure his tail with his hind leg?" The gesture was partly instinctive, for he loved Carlo; but it also had its origin in sheer nervousness, in sheer ignorance of what was the best thing to do. However, he was at once aware that he had done the worst thing. Had not Nellie announced that the dog must be got rid of? And here he was fondly caressing the bloodthirsty dog! With a hysterical movement of the lower part of her leg, Nellie pushed violently against the dog,--she did not kick, but she nearly kicked,--and Carlo, faintly howling a protest, fled. Edward Henry was hurt. He escaped from between the beds, and from that close, enervating domestic atmosphere where he was misunderstood by women and disdained by infants. He wanted fresh air; he wanted bars, whiskies, billiard-rooms, and the society of masculine men about town. The whole of his own world was against him. As he passed by his knitting mother, she ignored him and moved not. She had a great gift of holding aloof from conjugal complications. On the landing he decided that he would go out at once into the major world. Half-way down the stairs he saw his overcoat on the hall-stand, beckoning to him and offering release. Then he heard the bedroom door and his wife’s footsteps. "Edward Henry!" "Well?" He stopped and looked up inimically at her face, which overhung the banisters. It was the face of a woman outraged in her most profound feelings, but amazingly determined to be sweet. "What do you think of it?" "What do I think of what? The wound?" "Yes." "Why, it’s simply nothing. Nothing at all. You know how that kid always heals up quickly. You won’t be able to find the wound in a day or two." "Don’t you think it ought to be cauterised at once?" He moved downwards. "No, I don’t. I’ve been bitten three times in my life by dogs, and I was never cauterised." "Well, I _do_ think it ought to be cauterised." She raised her voice slightly as he retreated from her. "And I shall be glad if you’ll call in at Dr. Stirling’s and ask him to come round."