"Never mind your state," she consoled him sweetly, rising from her chair. "I like you better in this state than I do when you are smart. I thought you were too smart to—to condescend to trouble yourself about a poor dog."
"I am sorry you had such a bad opinion of me. It was simply—the thing didn't occur to me until you mentioned it."
"I know. But it is all right now. Well, I must go. You will never get your gun cleaned at this rate."
"Bother the gun! This is better than—I mean—won't you take a glass of wine?"
She declined emphatically and with haste, and hurried into the hall. He opened the front door for her, and they stood together for a moment on the dustless door-mat, mathematically laid upon verandah boards as white as new-peeled almonds.
"What a lovely garden!" remarked Rose, as she stepped down to it. Those were her words, but what she really said in her mind was: "Who would think he was a draper?"
Francie was aroused from her Sunday afternoon snooze on the drawing-room sofa.
"What IS the matter with that dog?" she complained pettishly. "Surely, after howling like a starved dingo all night—be quiet, Pepper! One of you is enough." Rose's terrier was up and fidgeting, with pricked ears.
"They must be killing him!" cried Deb, lifting her handsome head from her book.
"Oh, no," said Rose; "that sort of bark means joy, not pain."