“Dogs generally take to me,” the young man admitted.
Mrs. Granger raised her soft dark eyes to his face.
“I think that’s a very wonderful thing!” said she, quietly. “Because I’m sure they know. I’d trust Sandy’s judgment against any human being’s.”
“Oh—well—” Mr. Anderson remarked, grown very red.
“You must come and see Sandy again some day,” she suggested. “Poor little doggie!”
“I will!” said he. “Yes. Thanks, very much. I will!”
All this had taken considerable time, and Miss Selby was nowhere to be seen. He hurried after her and, turning the corner at the foot of the hill, saw her marching[Pg 375] briskly along ahead of him. She must have known that he would follow, yet she did not look back once, and when he reached her side she said nothing—neither did he. They went on.
Presently Miss Selby began to talk, making a very obvious effort to be polite. Mr. Anderson did not like this, but he, too, made an equally obvious effort at politeness, and succeeded quite as well as she did, and they continued in this formal, almost stately tone, for some time.
When she looked back upon it, Miss Selby was always at a loss to understand just how and when this correct tone had vanished from their conversation, and the quarrel had begun. For it was a quarrel—a genuine and a hearty one. And although Mrs. Granger was never once mentioned, yet the quarrel was about her.
Miss Selby declared flatly that dogs did not have any “wonderful instinct” for judging people. Mr. Anderson said he knew they did.