"Please!" she repeated with resolution.
With an abrupt movement he put the weapon into her hand. "Are you going to give me a taste?" he asked.
She uttered a queer little gasping laugh. "No. I—I'm not that sort. But—it's horrible to see a man lose control of himself. And to thrash a dog—like that!"
She turned sharply from him and went to the Dalmatian who crouched quaking on the path. He wagged an ingratiating tail at her approach. It was evident that in her hand the whip had no terrors for him. He crept fawning to her feet.
She stooped over him, fondling his head. "Oh, poor boy! Poor boy!" she said.
The dog's master came and stood beside her. "He'll be all right," he said, in a tone of half-surly apology.
"I'm afraid Mike has bitten him," she said. "See!" displaying a long, dark streak on Caesar's neck.
"He'll be all right," repeated Caesar's master. "I hope your dog is none the worse."
"No, I don't think so," she said. "But don't you think we ought to bathe this?"
"I'll take him home," he said. "They'll see to him at the stables."