George’s life fell back into her usual routine: riding at dawn, morning calls and shopping, walking in the park with Aunt Dottie in the afternoons and then in the evening some party or other.

Rose and Lily had gone to the country, Emm was so near her time she stayed home most days, and George was bored—bored and frustrated. Life had become flat and uninteresting.

Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, could anything be more dreary? Aunt Dottie loved the gentle exercise and the gossip. George loved Aunt Dottie but she hated gossip and found the fashionable hour more tiring than a ride to Hampstead Heath and back.

Three steps along, stop, bow. “Lady So-and-So, how do you do?” Stand for five minutes making boring small talk. Three more steps. “Lady Whoever, what a beautiful hat. Wherever did you get it?” Another few paces. “Did you hear what happened at Lady Somebody’s ball the other night? I know! Shocking, isn’t it? Do you think . . . ?”

Sometimes the ladies noticed Finn, and the conversation was marginally more interesting. But all too often it was, “No, he doesn’t bite. Yes, he is big . . . His name is Finn. A wolfhound . . . Yes, he does eat a lot . . . Yes, he is a dear doggie.” That last said through gritted teeth. Dear doggie indeed. As if her noble Finn was some kind of pampered lapdog.

There were times she wanted to scream and run off with her dog into the wilderness. Only there was no proper wilderness, not in London. Only slums and dark alleys and endless hard, unfriendly streets, and she didn’t want to run into them at all.

“There’s Mrs. Prescott,” Aunt Dottie said one day, and when George looked blank, she added, “The lady whose dog you rescued that time.”

Mrs. Prescott came bustling up. “Where’s FooFoo?” George asked after they’d exchanged greetings and small talk.

“I sent her to the country. She’ll be back as soon as her”—Mrs. Prescott glanced around and lowered her voice discreetly—“condition has passed.”

“Condition? You mean she’s breeding?”

“No, no, of course not. At least I hope not!” Mrs. Prescott said. “I am haunted by the thought that one of those nasty beasts—no! It’s unthinkable. Not my dear little FooFoo.”

“Let’s hope not,” George said in a bracing voice. They walked on. Poor little FooFoo, she was at the mercy of her animal nature. George knew just how she felt.

“I bet her precious FooFoo is breeding,” Aunt Dottie said. “And to the ugliest brute in the pack.” She chuckled. “Mind you, the ugliest ones are often the most attractive. It’s not all about looks, you know.” She stopped, her gaze across the park, and said with frank appreciation, “Though one must admit that a handsome man is a thing of beauty, particularly on horseback.”