While I was purchasing blotting-paper, ink and pens and stationery from a genial old woman in a mob-cap, Miss Monk entered the shop. She was dressed as she had been when I last saw her, but this time carried a dog-whip in place of a sunshade. Gamboling round her was a large ungainly Newfoundland year-old puppy, who answered to the odd name of Puddles. At least that was his pet name, as Miss Monk afterwards told me that he was registered as Ion, after the hero of Judge Talfourd's famous play. Puddles lounged against me with exuberant friendliness, and had to be corrected with the whip. When the commotion subsided, his mistress found time to speak and apologize, looking handsomer than ever, with the color of exercise in her cheeks.
"You mustn't mind the dog," she said gravely, "he won't bite you."
"I hope not," I replied with equal gravity, "I am extremely timid, you know."
She smiled at this. "I think I would trust you in a moment of danger, Mr. Vance. But to be friends with me, you must be friends with Puddles."
"I quite understand. Love me, love my dog."
"I didn't say anything about love," she laughed, her color deepening. "But in any case, you have put the cart before the horse. Love my dog and love me, you should say."
"Certainly! Puddles!" I dropped on one knee, and held out a caressing hand, "try and love me--as a beginning."
"A beginning to what?" asked Miss Monk, smiling and crimson.
"Puddles knows, Puddles understands: see, he gives me his paw. Good dog." I shook the huge paw, patted the huge head, and rose to be conventional. "It is a beautiful day, isn't it, Miss Monk."
"Of course, and the horse is the noblest of all animals," she replied with up-lifted eyebrows. "I thought you were more original, Mr. Vance."