His tone, abstracted and curt, was unlike his usual air of indolent authority. Finch knew that he was expected to move instantly, but he could not force his legs to carry him into the house. There was something in the porch, some presence, something between those two, that mesmerized him. His soul seemed to melt within him, to go out through his chest gropingly toward theirs. His body a helpless shell, propped there on two legs, while his soul crept out toward them, fawning about them like one of the spaniels, one of the spaniels on the scent of something strange and beautiful.
"You're so wet, Finch," came distantly in Alayne's voice.
And then in Renny's: "Will you do what I tell you? Get upstairs and change."
Finch peered at them, dazed. Then, slowly, his soul skulked back into his body like a dog into its kennel. Once more his legs had life in them.
"Sorry," he muttered, and half stumbled into the house.
Meg was coming down the stairway, and Rags had just turned on the light in the hall.
"How late you are!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what a muddy floor! Finch, is it possible you brought all that mud in? One would think you were an elephant. Will you please take it up, Wragge, at once, before it gets tramped in? How many times have I told you to wipe your boots on the mat outside, Finch?"
"I dunno."
"Well, really, this rug is getting to be a disgrace. You're late, dear. Are you starving?"
She was at the foot of the stairs now. She kissed him, and he rubbed his cheek, moist with rain, against hers, warm and velvety.
"M-m," they breathed, rocking together. Flossie, the
