Out from the hallway shot a cocker spaniel, loose-eared, yapping.
"Queenie, Queenie—come back. She won't bite—Queenie—bad girl!—come back from that nasturtium-bed—bad girl!—all washed and combed so pretty for a romp with her favver when him come home so tired. Queenie!"
She caught her by a rear leg as she leaped back, wild to rollick, tucking her under one arm, administering three diminutive punishments on the shaggy ears.
"Bad! Bad!"
"Is Mr.—Burkhardt—home?"
"Aw, now, he ain't! I sent him down by Gredel's nurseries on his way home to-night, for some tulip-bulbs for my iron jardinières. He ought to be back any minute if he 'ain't stopped to brag with old man Gredel that our arbutus beats his." Then, smiling and rubbing with the back of her free hand at a flour-streak across her cheek: "If—if it's the lady from the orphan asylum come to see about the—the little kid we want—is there anything I can do for you? I'm his wife. Won't you come in?"
"Oh no!" said Miss de Long, now already down two of the steps. "I—I—Oh no, no!—thank you! Oh no—no!—thank you!"
She walked swiftly, the purple veil blown back and her face seeming to look out of it whitely, so whitely that she became terrible.
Night was at hand, and Adalia was drawing down its front shades.