“What has the terrier done that he should be so humiliated?” asked the Artist, who had even more than the average man’s respect for dogs as compared with other domestic animals.
The girl ignored the question. There was something odd and unfamiliar in her manner, a peculiar glint in her eye, her full lips were drawn in a straighter line than usual. Having no professional interest in the scene, the Artist—unluckily for him—observed none of these ominous signs. Galatea shook her finger in the terrier’s face.
“Napoleon, your manner toward Reginald is not cordial. Sit closer!”
The terrier meekly obeyed. The pig gave him an expansive smile. The Artist began an impulsive protest:—
“Oh, now, I say, Galatea—”
“Napoleon! Reginald! Salute each other!”
The dog thumped the chair with his tail, the pig grunted amiably, and they pressed their cheeks together like affectionate children. The lank figure and solemn visage of the Poet appeared in the door.
“What is Napoleon’s crime that he should suffer such punishment?” he inquired.
“Just as I was remarking,” began the Artist; “but—”
“That will do,” said the girl, taking no notice of these comments. “Now sit up and look pleasant; you are about to have your pictures taken by a very celebrated artist.”