"There was a horrid dog in the hall that barked at me," Miss Wentstile continued. "You ought not to let your visitors be annoyed so."
"It isn't my dog," the widow replied with unusual conciliation in her manner. "It belongs to those Stearnses who have the apartment opposite."
"I can't bear other people's dogs," Miss Wentstile declared with superb frankness. "Fido was the only dog I ever loved."
"Where is Fido?" asked the widow. "I haven't heard his voice yet."
Miss Wentstile drew herself up stiffly.
"I have met with a misfortune. I had to send dear Fido away. He would bark at the Count."
Whatever the intentions of Mrs. Neligage to conciliate, Providence had not made her capable of resisting a temptation like this.
"How interesting the instinct of animals is," she observed with an air of the most perfect ingenuousness. "They seem to know doubtful characters by intuition."
"Doubtful characters?" echoed Miss Wentstile sharply. "Didn't Fido always bark at you, Louisa?"
"Yes," returned the caller as innocently as ever. "That is an illustration of what I was saying."