I had an
impulse to withdraw for a season from the social whirl, to seek repose
among the glens and gorges of this cattle plantation, and there try to
adjust myself more intelligently to my strange new environment. In the
meantime, I hoped, something might happen to the dog of Mrs. Judson;
or he might, perhaps, in my absence outlive his curious mania for me.
Mrs. Effie, whom I now consulted, after reading the letter of Cousin
Egbert, proved to be in favour of my going to him to make one last
appeal to his higher nature.
"If only he'd stick out there in the brush where he belongs, I'd let
him stay," she explained. "But he won't stick; he gets tired after
awhile and drops in perhaps on the very night when we're entertaining
some of the best people at dinner--and of course we're obliged to have
him, though he's dropped whatever manners I've taught him and picked
up his old rough talk, and he eats until you wonder how he can. It's
awful! Sometimes I've wondered if it couldn't be adenoids--there's a
lot of talk about those just now--some very select people have them,
and perhaps they're what kept him back and made him so hopelessly low
in his tastes, but I just know he'd never go to a doctor about them.
For heaven's sake, use what influence you have to get him back here
and to take his rightful place in society.
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