"It is my dog. Please, madam, allow me to keep him; he will disturb no one; shall give no trouble."
"Impossible! Dogs are my pet aversion. I would not even allow my daughter to accept a lovely Italian greyhound which Count Fagdalini sent her on her last birthday. That huge brute there would give me hysterics before dinner-time."
"Then you shall not see him. I will keep him always out of eight; he shall never annoy you."
"Very feasible in a Fifth Avenue house! Do you propose to lock him up always in your own chamber? How absurd!"
She touched the bell, and added:
"It always saves trouble to start exactly as we expect or intend to continue. I cannot endure dogs—never could, and yours must be disposed of at once."
Pitying the distress so eloquently printed on the face of the girl,
Mr. Roscoe interposed:
"Strike, but hear me! Don't banish the poor fellow so summarily. He can't go mad before May or June, if then; and at least let her keep him a few days. She feels strange and lonely, and it will comfort her to have him for a while."
"Nonsense, Elliott! Terry, tell Farley I shall want the carriage in half an hour, and meantime ask him to come here and help you take out this dog. We have no room for any such pests. Send Hattie to show this young lady to her own room."
Mr. Roscoe shrugged his shoulder, and closely inspected his seal ring.