"Why, you're looking right at him now!" protested her exasperated Mother.
With a gentle murmur of dissent, Flame's Father stepped forward and laid his arm across the young girl's shoulder. "She—she may be looking at him," he said. "But I'm almost perfectly sure that she doesn't ... see him."
"Why, whatever in the world do you mean?" demanded his wife. "Whatever in the world does anybody mean? If there was only another woman here! A mature ... sane woman! A——" With a flare of accusation she turned from Flame to the Master of the House. "This Miss Flora that my daughter spoke of,—where is she? I insist on seeing her! Please summon her instantly!"
Crossing genially to the table the Master of the House reached down and dragged out the Bull Dog by the brindled scuff of her neck. The scratch on her nose was still bleeding slightly. And one eye was closed.
"This is—Miss Flora!" he said.
Indignantly Flame's Mother glanced at the dog, and then from her daughter's face to the face of the young man again.
"And you call that—a lady?" she demanded.
"N—not technically," admitted the young man.
For an instant a perfectly tense silence reigned. Then from under a shadowy basket the Cat crept out, shining, sinuous, with extended paw, and began to pat a sprig of holly cautiously along the floor.
Yielding to the reaction Flame bent down suddenly and hugging the Wolf Hound's head to her breast buried her face in the soft, sweet shagginess.