A murmur of wondering dismay aroused Flavia from her musing, a sound scarcely louder than the murmur of the bees busied among the heavy waxen-white lemon-blossoms overhead. She lifted her chin from her hand, and saw a brown-haired, brown-skinned, brown-eyed girl standing on the path, gazing at the huge dog that barred her passage.
"Pray do not be frightened," Flavia begged. "Come here, Frederick! Indeed, he is only a young dog and very gentle."
"He is very large, señorita," the girl smiled, half-reassured, half-fearful. "He bites, no?"
"No, indeed. See."
"He loves the señorita. That does not surprise," with Latin grace of compliment.
Flavia smiled, too, drawing the Great Dane's bulky head against her knee.
"I love him, perhaps."
"One sees it, since he voyages with the señores in that splendid automobile, where a man might find place with joy."
A wistfulness in the comment moved the listener to give explanation, almost in apology for lavishing upon an animal what might have rejoiced a human being.