ropped the Pomeranian on the bed. The dog snarled and
snapped viciously. Frank thrust out one hand and gave the animal a
pettish push. Bestowing a hard, cold glare on her son, Mrs. Wiley
snatched up the growling dog in high indignation.

"There! I ask you, nurse, if that child isn't just unnatural. I thought
boys liked dogs. Francis is queer. I believe he actually hates Kiki."
She lifted the dog against her face, permitting it to loll its pink
tongue against her carefully rouged cheek. "Pwecious ... Was it muvver's
own pwecious ikkle Kiki? Francis," she addressed her son sharply,
"you'll have to get over your nasty ugliness to poor little Kiki. It's a
shame, the way you hate dogs!"

"But I don't hate dogs!" cried the boy vehemently, his voice breaking
with indignant resentment. "It's just Kiki. I'd love to have a little
dog of my very own, Mother. If you'd only let me have a little dog of my
very own!" The faint voice died away in a sick wail. The boy's eyelids
closed tightly against gushing tears.

Mrs. Wiley gave a short exclamation of impatience.

"Francis has the idea that a dirty mongrel would be nicer than a
beautiful pedigreed dog like Kiki," she cried disgustedly.

"But why not try letting him have a dog of his own?" asked Miss Beaver
ill-advisedly, her interest getting the better of her. "Perhaps it would
give him interest enough ..."

"Nonsense!" snapped Mrs. Wiley sharply. "I won't have street mutts
wandering around the house to irritate poor little Kiki. Nasty smelly
common mongrels with fleas. Indeed not. I'm surprised at you, nurse, for
making the suggestion."

With that, young Mrs. Wiley removed her vivid presence from the room,
leaving Miss Beaver shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrows.
And the little boy crying softly, the sheet pulled over his dark head.

"What's all this, Frankie?" asked the father's voice.

"_She_ won't let me have a dog of my own," sobbed the boy, coming out
from under the concealing sheet, lips a-quiver, eyes humid.

Miss Beaver's lips compressed. He called his mother "She" as if she were
an outsider....

Frank Wiley III stood for a moment looking at his son, then let himself
gently down on the edge of the bed, laying one big palm on the little
chap's hot forehead. He did not speak, just sat and stroked the fevered
brow with tenderness. On his face a dark look brooded. His eyes were
absent, unhappy.

"Daddy, why couldn't I have just a _little_ puppy of my ow