"They dye me so," he answered gloomily. "It's a dreadful lot for a dog that respects himself."

I never saw Bessie but once again. She seemed then to be living with a tinsmith, and her colour was a gingery white.

I hope I am too much of a gentleman to taunt any lady in misfortune, but I couldn't help saying—

"Why don't you wear any of your beautiful coloured dresses now?"

She answered me curtly, for she saw that she had ceased to charm.

"I gave up wearing my pretty dresses," she said, "because silly people asked me so many questions about them."

As usual, I accepted her explanations in silence; but, when I see the poodle opposite, in his varying glories of blue, and green, and orange, and purple, I can't help thinking that perhaps my fair Bessie did not always speak the truth.