And now all the dogs who had been invited had come, and were sitting in the parlor waiting for the dinner-bell to ring, talking and laughing as pleasantly and properly as the king, or the president, or you, or I.
Of course, the first thing any one said, after “How-de-do?” was, “It’s a fine day!” because that’s the solemn rule in all polite society. Then, of course, they went on to say it was worse weather last week, and would be better weather next week; and after about a dozen more deeply interesting remarks upon the weather, the dinner-bell rang, and made them all jump. But the very next instant they sat down again, trying to look as if they were in no sort of hurry, as it would have been very bad manners to rush pell-mell down stairs. Everybody knows that.
First the little bustling Lord Chesterfield stepped out, leading Lucy with the utmost consideration and politeness. Then Beppo made a low bow to a very respectable old lady-mastiff, and begged the honor of handing her into dinner, to which she graciously consented. Then a very tall stag-hound, with an uncommonly sharp nose, paired off with Flora, a beautiful pointer; while a large, grave, middle-aged Newfoundland dog made himself agreeable to an Italian greyhound of no particular age; at least she never liked to tell how old she was, and almost always had the snuffles. Then a pert little black-and-tan terrier skipped up to a coquettish King Charles, and said “would she make him the happiest dog in the world?” upon which she shook her silky ears, and putting her head on one side, and half shutting her beautiful black eyes, lisped out “she would;” while a fat poodle, invited because she was so exceedingly genteel, and a Skye terrier, also used to the very best society, brought up the rear; and thus they marched two and two, with the utmost propriety, into the dining-room.
And now see this elegant party at the table. The little bustling old gentleman at the foot, and Beppo, whose back is turned to you, at the head, with Lucy at his right hand.
I forgot to tell you that our friend had requested a private interview with my Lord Chesterfield, about an hour before dinner.
“Well, sir, what do you wish?” he asked.
“My dear master,” said Beppo, respectfully, “you know very well that the dogs who will come to my dinner-party will none of them have on coats or pantaloons, or hooped skirts. I do not wish to mortify them, so please let me wear my natural suit for this once, and only my gold collar.”
The little bustling old gentleman turned upon him with a look of rage, enough to petrify a milestone.
“Is this your gratitude?” he roared, “when I am spending all my days in teaching you to live and dress like a gentleman?”