The young man, sitting calmly in the street, glanced up at Miss Weyland with no sign of interest.
"I have no complaint to make," he answered, precisely; "though the loss of my fruit seems unfortunate, to say the least of it."
"I know! The way they fell on them," she answered, as self-unconscious as he—"quite as though you had offered to treat! I'm very much mortified—But—are you hurt? I thought for a minute that the coal cart was going right over you."
A crowd had sprung up in a wink; a circle of interested faces watching the unembarrassed girl apologizing to the studious-looking little man who sat so calmly upon his hat in the middle of the street. Meantime all traffic on that side was hopelessly blocked. Swearing truck drivers stood up on their seats from a block away to see what had halted the procession.
"But what is the object of a dog like that?" inquired the man ruminatively. "What good is he? What is he for?"
"Why—why—why," said she, looking ready to laugh—"he's not a utilitarian dog at all, you see! He's a pleasure-dog, you know—just a big, beautiful dog to give pleasure!—"
"The pleasure he has given me," said the man, gravely producing his derby from beneath him and methodically undenting it, "is negligible. I may say non-existent."
From somewhere rose a hoarse titter. The girl glanced up, and for the first time became aware that her position was somewhat unconventional. A very faint color sprang into her cheeks, but she was not the kind to retreat in disorder. West dodged through the blockade in time to hear her say with a final, smiling bow:
"I'm so glad you aren't hurt, believe me ... And if my dog has given you no pleasure, you may like to think that you have given him a great deal."
A little flushed but not defeated, her gloved hand knotted in Behemoth's gigantic scruff, she moved away, resigning the situation to West. West handled it in his best manner, civilly assisting the little man to rise, and bowing himself off with the most graceful expressions of regret for the mishap.