The next day, when I hurried to keep the appointment she had been good enough to make with me, I found her a deep purple. Again I concealed my surprise, while we talked of subjects of common interest, of dog—collars and chains and kennels, of biscuits, bones, and the outrage of the muzzling order; and at last I said—
"You have changed your dress again. Your mother was the Royal——"
"Oh, don't," she said, "it's so tiresome to keep repeating things. My father was red and my mother was blue, and I myself, as you see, am purple. Don't you know that crimson and blue make purple? Any child with a shilling box of paints could have told you that."
I thanked her, and came away. Purple seemed to me the most beautiful colour in the world.
But the next day she was green—as green as grass. After the customary exchange of civilities, I remarked firmly—
"Blue and crimson may make purple, but——"
"But green is my favourite colour," she said briskly. "I suppose a dog is not to be bound down by the prejudices of its parents?"
I went away very sadly, and, as I went, I noticed that there were some curtains in the dyer's window of exactly the same tint as my friend's dress. The next day she was gone.
I sought her in vain. The day after, a French poodle appeared on the dyer's doorstep, dressed in stripes of orange and scarlet. I went boldly across to him.
"Good morning, old man; how do you come to be that colour?" I said.