e was a labor
of love. "He is the most beautiful dog in the world!" the girl began,
with kindling eyes. "He has the most exquisite white curly hair and two
light brown patches on his back--and, oh! _such_ lovely dark eyes!
They call him a Scotch terrier. When he is well his appetite is truly
wonderful--nothing comes amiss to him, sir, from pate de foie gras to
potatoes. He has his enemies, poor dear, though you wouldn't think it.
People who won't put up with being bitten by him (what shocking tempers
one does meet with, to be sure!) call him a mongrel. Isn't it a shame?
Please come in and see him, sir; my Lady will be tired of waiting."

Another journey to the door followed those words, checked instantly by a
serious objection.

"Stop a minute! You must tell me what his temper is, or I can do nothing
for him."

Isabel returned once more, feeling that it was really serious this time.
Her gravity was even more charming than her gayety. As she lifted
her face to him, with large solemn eyes, expressive of her sense of
responsibility, Hardyman would have given every horse in his stables to
have had the privilege of taking her in his arms and kissing her.

"Tommie has the temper of an angel with the people he likes," she said.
"When he bites, it generally means that he objects to strangers. He
loves my Lady, and he loves Mr. Moody, and he loves me, and--and I think
that's all. This way, sir, if you please, I am sure I heard my Lady
call."

"No," said Hardyman, in his immovably obstinate way. "Nobody called.
About this dog's temper? Doesn't he take to any strangers? What sort of
people does he bite in general?"

Isabel's pretty lips began to curl upward at the corners in a quaint
smile. Hardyman's last imbecile question had opened her eyes to the
true state of the case. Still, Tommie's future was in this strange
gentleman's hands; she felt bound to consider that. And, moreover, it
was no everyday event, in Isabel's experience, to fascinate a famous
personage, who was also a magnificent and perfectly dressed man. She ran
the risk of wasting another minute or two, and went on with the memoirs
of Tommie.

"I must own, sir," she resumed, "that he behaves a little
ungratefully--even to strangers who take an interest in him. When he
gets lost in the streets (which is very often), he sits down on the
pavement and howls till he collects a pitying crowd round him; and when
they try to read his name and address on his collar he