To Say Nothing of the Dog (Bantam Spectra Book) by Connie Willis

Author:Connie Willis [Willis, Connie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: antique
Published: 2012-04-11T21:52:22+00:00

The stable? No, we’d still have to cross a corner of the lawn to get there. Perhaps the best idea was to stay here in the gazebo and try to get Verity to lie down on one of the benches.

“And what is wrong with a Grand Design, I should like to know?” Professor Peddick said from the direction of the fishpond. “Of course Overforce can’t envision a Grand Design. His idea of a plan is to train his dog to jump out of trees onto innocent bystanders.”

“Come on, Verity,” I said, raising her to her feet. “We can’t stay here.”

“Where are we going?” she said. “We’re not going to the jumble sale, are we? I hate jumble sales. I hate shells and tassels and embroidery and tatting and scrollwork and all those beads they put on everything. Why can’t they just leave well enough alone?”

“We cannot see the design because we are a part of it,” Professor Peddick’s voice, much nearer, said. “Can the thread in the loom see the pattern in the fabric? Can the soldier see the strategy of the battle he is fighting?” and I hustled Verity out of the gazebo and over behind the lilacs.

“Come on,” I said, taking her hand as if she were a child. “We’re going to go now. This way.”

I led her behind the lilacs and down the path to the river. Cyril and Princess Arjumand followed us, Princess Arjumand twining herself around our legs as we walked and impeding our progress.

“Cyril,” I whispered, “go find Terence.”

“Good idea,” Verity said. “I have a few things to say to Terence. ‘Terence,’ I’m going to say to him, ‘how can you be in love with someone who hates your dog?’”

We reached the towpath. “Shh,” I said, listening for Professor Peddick.

“Through art, through history, we may glimpse the Grand Design,” he said. His voice sounded farther away. “But only for a fleeting moment. ‘For His works are unsearchable and His ways past finding out,’” he said, his voice growing fainter. They must be going up to the house.

“I’ll bet Maud Peddick loves dogs,” Verity said. “She’s a lovely girl. She doesn’t keep a diary, she’s patriotic—”

There was no one down at the dock. I propelled Verity rapidly down the path to the river.

“She’s got a poem named after her,” Verity said. “‘Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone.’ By Tennyson. Terence loves quoting Tennyson. When Maud Peddick screams, I’ll bet it’s the real thing and not some little baby scream. Oh, are we going in a boat?”

“Yes,” I said, helping her in. “Sit down.”

She stood, swaying slightly, in the stern, gazing wistfully out at the river. “Lord Peter took Harriet out boating,” she said. “They fed the ducks. Are we going to feed the ducks?”

“You bet,” I said, untying the rope. “Sit down.”

“Oh, look,” she said, pointing at the shore. “They want to come. Isn’t that sweet?”

I jerked my head up and looked at the shore. Cyril and Princess Arjumand were standing side by side on the little dock.

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