She passed him by as though he were merely a part of the furniture. "Marky" gazed at her furtively, but slowly his composure deserted him. He backed away carefully from this wonderful creation.
"She lives only for her art, eh?" he murmured softly. "I got you—you'll die young," he added to himself, as he drew another cigar from his pocket, ostentatiously lighted it, and strolled out onto the veranda.
"Victor, is the motor here?" demanded Mrs. Dainton.
Victor shifted the Pomeranian to the other arm, stepped to the door of the sun parlor, and reported that the chauffeur seemed to be tinkering with the car.
"And must I breathe this horrible atmosphere while that lazy chauffeur pretends to fix the car? You must discharge him and get another."
"But I say," broke in Gordon, "the man's the best driver I ever had. I brought him from France."
"I don't care if you brought him from Hindoostan," retorted Mrs. Dainton, coldly. "When I say I will not use him after to-day, I mean it." Reaching two daintily gloved hands toward the Pomeranian, snugly ensconced under Victor's arm, the actress grasped its little, fuzzy head, pressed it to her cheek, and smothered it with kisses. "And my poor 'ittle Fuzzy-Wuzzy. Must 'oo breafe ze awful smoke, too, bress um baby heartsums. Ums 'ittle Fuzzy-Wuzzy is mamma's pet, isn't ums?"
"The motor is ready now, Madame," ventured Victor stolidly.
Mrs. Dainton handed the dog to Johanna.
"Wrap the precious darling up warmly, Johanna," she said. "You ride with me, Victor. Lizette, my cloak. Crawley, you ride in front with the chauffeur and keep any dust from entering Fuzzy's eyes."