Mr. Stip. Perhaps you may produce a better effect with this. [He hands her a stuffed stoat.
Fluff (to himself). What's she got hold of now? Hul-lo! (He rises, and inspects the stoat with interest.) I'd no idea the old girl was so "varmint"!
Mr. Stip. Capital! Now, if he'll stay like that another——(Fluff jumps down, and wags his tail with conscious merit.) Oh, dear me. I never saw such a dog!
The E. L. He's tired out, poor doggie, and no wonder. But he'll be all the quieter for it, won't he? (After restoring Fluff to the chair.) Now, couldn't you take him panting, like that?
Mr. Stip. I must wait till he's got a little less tongue out, Madam.
The E. L. Must you? Why? I should have thought it was a capital opportunity.
Mr. Stip. For a physician, Madam, not a photographer. If I were to take him now the result would be an—ah—enormous tongue, with a dog in the remote distance.
The E. L. And he's putting out more and more of it! Perhaps he's thirsty again. Here, Fluffy, water—water! [She produces the developing dish.
Fluff (in barks of unmistakable significance). Look here, I've had about enough of this tomfoolery. Let's go. Come on!
Mr. Stip. (seconding the motion with relief). I'm afraid we're not likely to do better with him to-day. Perhaps if you could look in some othah afternoon?