Mike, who had been dreaming all afternoon on the porch, had gotten up reluctantly as they passed and followed them. He had a slow, lopsided gait, and his tongue dangled from the side of his mouth. It was evidently a sacrifice for him to accompany them, but duty was duty.
“You angel dog! Come here to your Missus!” commanded Miss Lady, as she and Donald dropped down in the old barrel-stave hammock, that had swung beneath the lilacs since the Colonel was a boy.
But Mike ambled past her, and after snuggling up to Don with a great show of intimacy lay down at his feet.
“I'm glad somebody loves me,” Donald said.
“It's your riding boots, Mike likes. He never had a chance to taste tan shoe polish before!”
“What do you like me for?”
“Me? Who said I did?”
“Don't you?”
“Oh, yes, I like tan boots, too. Why didn't you tell me my hair had tumbled down again?”
“Because you are so beautiful, with it like that, Miss Lady—”