Gavan surmised that the Homeric Greeks had little sense of responsibility about dogs. “They were horrid, then,” said Eppie. “Dear Argos! Think of him trying to wag his tail when he was dying and saw Ulysses; _he_ was horrid, too, for he surely might have just stopped for a moment and patted his head. I’m glad that Robbie didn’t live in those times. You wouldn’t let Robbie die on a dunghill if _I_ were to go away!” “No, indeed, Eppie!” Gavan smiled. “I think you really love Robbie as much as I do, Gavan. You love him more than Uncle Nigel does. One can always see in people’s eyes how much they love a dog. That fat, red Miss Erskine simply feels nothing for them, though she always says ‘Come, come,’ to Robbie. But her eyes are like stones when she looks at him. She is really thinking about her tea, and watching to see that Aunt Rachel puts in plenty of cream. I suppose that Penelope looked like her, when she used to see Argos on the dunghill.” Robbie was plunging through the heather before them and paused to look round at them, his delicate tongue lapping in little pants over his teeth. “Darling Robbie,” said Gavan. “Our eyes aren’t like stones when we look at you! See him smile, Eppie, when I speak to him. Wouldn’t it be funny if we smiled with our ears instead of with our mouths.” Gavan, after a moment, sighed involuntarily and deeply. “What is the matter?” Eppie asked quickly, for she had grown near enough to ask it. And how near they were was shown after a little silence, by Gavan saying: “I was only wishing that everything could be happy at once, Eppie. I was thinking about my mother and wishing that she might be here with you and me and Robbie.” His voice was steadied to its cold quiet as he said it, though he knew how safe from any hurt he was with her. And she said nothing, and did not look at him, only, in silence, putting a hand of comradeship on his shoulder while they walked. IV Once a week, on the days of the Indian mail, Eppie’s understanding hovered helplessly about Gavan, seeing pain for him and powerless to shield him from it. Prayers took place in the dining-room ten minutes before breakfast, and with the breakfast the mail was brought in, so that Gavan’s promptest descent could not secure him a solitary reading of the letter that, Eppie felt, he awaited with trembling eagerness.