brown hall where deep shadows lurked. Oak chests and carved chairs, all
more or less dusty, stood about, looking as if disorderly feasters had
just left them. In one corner was an inlaid sideboard piano.

Hazel did not notice the grey dust and the hearth full of matches and
cigarette ends. She only saw what seemed to her fabulous splendour. A
foxhound rose from the moth-eaten leopard-skin by the hearth as they
came in. Hazel stiffened.

'I canna-d-abear the hound-dogs,' she said. 'Nasty snabbing things.'

'Best dogs going.'

'No, they kills the poor foxes.'

'Vermin.'

Hazel's face became tense. She clenched her hands and advanced a
determined chin.

'Keep yer tongue off our Foxy, or I unna stay!' she said.

'Who's Foxy?'

'My little small cub as I took and reared.'

'Oh! you reared it, did you?'

'Ah. She didna like having no mam. I'm her mam now.'