Ian Hay

“ Daphne shrank back at the sound of his voice. His face was like flint.
"Then—where is he?" she faltered. "Windebank said—"
"I had him shot."
Daphne stared at him incredulously.
"You had him shot!" she said slowly. "My Dawks?"
"Yes. It was rank cruelty on your part keeping the poor brute alive, after—after reducing him to that state."
The last half of the sentence may have been natural and justifiable, but no one could call it generous. It is not easy to be merciful when one is at white heat.
Daphne stood up, very slim and straight, gazing stonily into her husband's face. ”

“ Daphne drove to Croxley Dene, where for an hour or so she exchanged banalities with the rest of the county and played a set of tennis.
She drove home in the cool of the evening, more composed in mind. The fresh air and exercise had done her good. Windebank had said that the dog would live: that was everything. Less satisfactory to contemplate was the approaching interview with her husband in the matter of the car. Until now she had not thought of it.
On reaching home she hurried to the library, where she had left the invalid lying on a rug before the fire. Mr Dawks was not there. ”

“ Suddenly realizing that Mr Dawks, who was now sitting up expectantly in the middle distance, wagging his tail and extending a welcome as misplaced as that of Jephtha's daughter under somewhat similar circumstances, had no conception of the necessity for vacating his present position, Daphne put down both feet hard and endeavored to bring the car to a standstill. But thirty miles an hour is forty-four feet a second, and the momentum of a car weighing two tons is not lightly to be arrested by a brake constructed only to obey the pressure of a masculine boot. ”