“Sister,” she said, “I think—a cat has got in and bitten him.”
She closed her hand on something soft, lifted it out and laid it on the ground. It was small, it was black, it was dumpy. It moved a round head in an uncertain, inquiring way, and tried to open its tightly-closed eyes. Then it squeaked.
Thrice more did Miss Pellicoe thrust her hand into the house. Thrice again did she bring out an object exactly similar.
“Wee-e-e-e!” squeaked the four objects. Hector thrashed her tail about and blinked joyfully, all unconscious of the utter wreck of her masculinity, looking as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to have a litter of pups—as, indeed, it was.
Honora broke the awful silence,—Miss Angela was sobbing so softly you could scarcely hear her.
“Be thim Hector’s?” Honora inquired.
“Honora!” said Miss Pellicoe, rising, “never utter that name in my presence again.”
“An’ fwat shall I call the dog?”
“Call it”—and Miss Pellicoe made a pause of impressive severity, “call it—Andromache.”