"Oh, yes; he's down with Thomas. He's crazy. He barked all the way here."
But Dotty was already flying down stairs to find her beloved puppy.
"Here he is, Miss Dorothy," and the chauffeur, Thomas, gave the black poodle into her arms.
"Oh, you blessed Blotty-boy! Oh, you cunnin' Blotsy-wotsy! Does him love hims Dotty?"
The love was manifested by some moist caresses and then Blot was all for a scamper. Dotty took him out on the lawn and set him down, herself all ready for a romp.
Now only a minute before, Flossy, the white kitten, had waked from her nap, and seeing that Dolly was absorbed in her story-book, inferred that kitten comfort was not at the moment needed, and decided to go after a very yellow butterfly out on the Fayre lawn.
Stealthily across the grass, Flossy went butterflywards, on tippy-toe. Each white paw was daintily lifted and softly set down on the thick turf, as her progress continued. From the Rose lawn Blot spied the advancing Flossy. He didn't then know her name, but he had liberal ideas on the subject of introductions, and he made a wild dash toward the oncoming kitten.
When Floss saw the small black whirlwind hurling itself at her, she was either too brave or too frightened to retreat, so she put her white back up as high as possible and stood her ground. She expressed her opinion of the performance in a series of sputtering yowls that drew Dolly's attention from her book to the impending battle.
She sprang out of the swing, and rushed toward Flossy just as the two belligerents met in the grassy arena.
Dorothy Rose, on her side of the lawn was shaking with laughter, and this sight was the last straw to Dorinda Fayre's overburdened soul.