hold on her; she loved the woman, she admired the artist, and she
was quick to recognise the real feeling and deep kindness that lay
under brusque manner and quizzical speeches. She had good reason.
She glanced now round the big room. Everywhere were evidences of
lavish generosity, showered on her regardless of protest.
Gillian's eyes filled slowly with tears. It was all a fairy story,
too wonderful almost to be true. Why were they so good to her--how
would she ever be able to repay the kindness lavished on her? Her
thoughts were interrupted by the latest gift that rose out of his
basket with a sleepy yawn and stretching luxuriously came and laid
his head on her knee, looking up at her with sad brown eyes. She
had always loved animals, the possession of some dog had been an
ardent desire, and she hugged the big black poodle now with a
little sob.

"Mouston, you pampered person, have you ever been lonely? Can you
imagine what it is like to be made to feel that you _belong_
to somebody again?" She rubbed her cheek against his satiny head,
crooning over him, the dog thrilling to her touch with jerking
limbs and sharp half-stifled whines. It was her first experience
of ownership, of responsibility for a living creature that was
dependent on her and for which she was answerable. And it was
likely to prove an arduous responsibility. He was single-minded
and jealous in his allegiance; Miss Craven he tolerated
indifferently, of Craven he was openly suspicious. He followed
Gillian like a shadow and moped in her absence, yielding to
Yoshio, who had charge of him on such occasions, a resigned
obedience he gave to no other member of the household. Through
Mouston Gillian and Yoshio had become acquainted.