The Genie of Sutton Place Read Online Free Page B

that a dog who turns out to be half basset hound looks pretty soulful anyway. “Your aunt acted as if poor old Sam was a peeping Tom.”
    A few of these embarrassing moments I saw myself, but I didn’t put them all together. Like the time Aunt Lucy was teaching me about French cooking. She always had my place set at the opposite end of the table from hers, very formal and uncomfortable, and she was explaining the chocolate mousse we were having for dessert. I didn’t want to tell her that I already knew what a mousse was and that Madame Sosostris could make an even better one than Rose. I know I have a tendency to come on like a smarty-pants kid, and Aunt Lucy did seem to be enjoying herself, explaining about how it was really just a fluffy chocolate pudding, when all of a sudden she let out a squeak and her eyes got that glass look.
    I peered under the table, and there was Sam, who had just lain down with his head over Aunt Lucy’s foot. I think it’s nice when a dog loves you enough to lay his head across your foot, but I knew that Aunt Lucy didn’t share my opinion, so I hauled Sam off to my bedroom. I was hoping she’d go on describing the chocolate mousse, but she’d tightened up by the time I got back. And she was sneezing, too … Honestly, I never did believe those sneezes.
    I never saw the worst moments. The one Rose enjoyed most—but Aunt Lucy sure didn’t—was when she’d left her bedroom door ajar and woken up one morning to find Sam’s head asleep beside her on the pillow. She’d screamed, “Sam!”—and he’d said, “Woof,” and gone back to his box.
    Then there was the incident of Mr. Watkins. Rose told me she happened to have some work in the hall, so she couldn’t help but overhear them talking in the living room. About my “schooling” and whether I was “adjusting” or not. I think it was the very day that I was “adjusting” my bookcases up to the apartment. Well, I don’t think it came to actual biting—I hope not anyway—but it seems that Sam, who had not adjusted to Mr. Watkins too well, chased him up on a chair, and it took all of Rose’s persuasion and strength to drag Sam back into my bedroom.
    Then came the big blowup. It happened on the great day … You never know in the morning what you’ll find in the night.
    *   *   *
    I was sitting in the kitchen, having breakfast. Rose was keeping me company with a cup of coffee and doing the New York Times crossword puzzle, which she said meant just as much to her as her first cup of coffee. Maurice was there, too, fidgeting and waiting for Aunt Lucy.
    Suddenly there came this terrific crashing from Aunt Lucy’s bedroom. We all froze. Then we heard Aunt Lucy squeaking, “Oh! oh! oh!”—and we rushed to see what had happened.
    Aunt Lucy was standing on the threshold to her bathroom—I guess she’d been in there doing a last little bit of primping—and staring at the catastrophe. The catastrophe was Sam, lying under the wreckage of her vanity table, covered with a gooey mixture of perfume and face powder. He’d obviously been up on his hind legs, enjoying a sniff, and pulled the whole thing over on him. Half the bottles were broken, and all of them were leaking, and he was some smelly mess! (But despite it all, he was still grinning.)
    I heard Rose murmur, “Oh, man, that dog has really done it now!” Then she pitched in and started to clean things up.
    I was going to begin to apologize for Sam, when Aunt Lucy said, as loftily as a little woman could, “Timothy, I want that mongrel out of here.” I thought she meant, just out of her bedroom. “Lock him in your bathroom. Then come into the living room. It’s time we had a talk.” She was being as formal and grownup as possible, but a fit of sneezing got hold of her and sort of undid the act. I