“Would you like your lawn to look like that, Madam?” asked the red headed youth in charge of squares that didn’t look in the least like real grass, but a kind of artificial compound as above mentioned.
“Very much!” said one of us, who was struck by the unnatural hue and smoothness of the exhibit.—“Do mind the sun on your head!” she added parenthetically to the delicate member of our party, who is always on her mind. “Oh, pray Madam, do not trouble to shade me,” said the red-haired youth modestly. “I am quite all right, I assure you.”
We had a vision of Loki’s Ma-Ma in her quaint Directoire dress, all striped black-and-cream chiffon and dim orange, with her absurd little Directoire tulle hat and its one coquettish rose ‹absurd but not unbecoming› spending the rest of the afternoon in sudden philanthropic frenzy, shading the red-haired youth from the July sunshine, while he volubly touted for orders for patent fertilisers! Innately polite, we explained. He was not in the least abashed.
“I do feel it very hot,” he remarked simply.
XXIII
Loki is once more Only-dog in London. He is unspeakably grimy, as none of the famiglia except Juvenal are ever able or willing to tub him when he most wants it. Juvenal, his special friend, has been away on his holiday—poor little Loki could not understand his absence. He was perpetually rushing out of the rooms and downstairs to see if he had arrived. At last, worn out with suspense, he dashed up to his butler’s bedroom and would not be satisfied till he was admitted; when, jumping on the bed, he began to tear up the clothes, believing, we suppose, that Juvenal shared his propensity for curling under the quilt. Odd little dog! He has as many moods as a fine lady, and when really annoyed lies in a strained attitude with his hind paws stuck outward like the embryo legs of a little crocodile. This is the sign that he wants “a powder”: what we call in our playful dog-language, “a pow-pow.”
FREEMASONRY OF DOG-LOVERS
What a freemasonry the love of dogs creates! Loki’s Grandfather, travelling up from our moors the other day, met a family likewise going to London; and these had with them a small Pekinese, who sat very sadly with drooping head and tail. The owner of Loki watched him sympathetically for some time in silence, then unable to repress his feelings, he leant forward and said very solemnly to the Pekinese’s lady:
“This little dog wants a pow-wow!”