Something Light by Margery Sharp

Meare; Louisa had never seen a woman more content …
    Had she married the life, wondered Louisa suddenly, or the man? It seemed important to find out.
    â€œDid you always,” asked Louisa—going a bit roundabout—“mean to breed dachshunds?”
    â€œSome sort of dog,” agreed Mrs. Meare innocently. “We settled on dachs because they’re so easy. Even when we show, I just rub them over in the car with a loofah glove …”
    For a moment Louisa was tempted to visualize the Meares at Cruft’s; they probably looked as though they’d been rubbed over with a loofah too. But she was becoming more and more in earnest.
    â€œWell, did you always mean to live in the country?”
    â€œI suppose so,” said Mrs. Meare, more vaguely. “Not that dachs take up much room. But of course Teddy being a vet—”
    (“Ah!” thought Louisa—feeling her hand on a clue. The life, not the man: if you want to breed dogs, marry a vet.)
    â€œâ€”the country seemed obvious. Of course, I didn’t know he was a vet,” added Mrs. Meare. “When we met, in the war, he was heavily disguised as a gunner! Actually we bought the cottage out of his gratuity …”
    She looked affectionately over her shoulder towards the peeling paint, the unpointed brick; glanced fondly at the plaster dwarfs. Louisa found a compliment surprisingly easy to produce.
    â€œIt’s so peaceful,” said Louisa. “It’s quite marvelous … Would you mind going back a bit? How did you know—or didn’t you know?—it would work out so well?”
    â€œI saw Ted was steady,” said Mrs. Meare simply. “That’s all a woman wants, don’t you think? I mean, surely it’s the basis? We’ll never be rich, but Ted has a wonderfully steady little practice; and if he wasn’t a vet he’d be something else steady!—Now I’ve just talked about myself,” said Mrs. Meare remorsefully, “and there he is with the car!”
    6
    Mr. Meare was a bit damp about the trousers, but he’d changed his jacket; in place of leather-patched tweed he now sported, Louisa was touched to see, an ancient gunner blazer. He meant to cut a dash indeed, he meant to drive her to the station in style! With what looked like an old pajama leg he carefully dusted the car seats; turfed out a bundle of old newspapers and a dog-odorous blanket. He even gave a swift polish to the door handles and headlamps, before inviting Louisa to enter.
    Louisa entered looking as Londony as she could.—Casting her mind back to Cannes, she even tried to look cosmopolitan. (Or like a model; Louisa was so long-limbed, she practically achieved it—the elegant stretch of leg, the final loose-jointed subsidence.) A glance in the driving mirror confirmed her hat at a suitably cosmopolitan angle, and powder and lipstick both sufficient. As a final gesture of good will she impulsively got out her eyebrow pencil and drew a slight bistered streak up from the corner of each eye.
    â€œI say!” exclaimed Mr. Meare, in candid admiration. “I’ll feel I’m driving a film star! D’you mind if we slow down through the village?”
    â€œNot a bit,” quoted Louisa, “so long as I catch my train.”
    â€œThere’s plenty of time, I’ve allowed for it,” said Mr. Meare. “May as well give the natives a treat! Sure you’re quite comfortable?”
    â€œPerfectly,” said Louisa.
    â€œThen I’ll just get Molly,” said Mr. Meare.
    Louisa heard him calling all up the garden. From the house, she heard his wife call some protesting reply. But whatever argument took place within, in a matter of moments Molly joined them.—Not in the least like a model looked Mrs. Meare, in her Panama hat, a woolly cardigan thrown hastily about her shoulders; but her beaming smile made her a very agreeable sight.
    â€œThis is all