Miss Clement blushed. The tranquil eyes were looking sadly into her own as if investigating in a friendly way her most secret thoughts. She became embarrassed.
"Why, yes—I like it."
"It is better than some other names."
"Indeed it is! Very much better!"
"It is the name of a great conqueror."
"Yes—of course—and—perhaps you may be a great conqueror yourself when you grow up."
"No. I don't care for that business. I shall sit on the high seat of a big, gold band-wagon of a circus full of splendid music, with eight white horses. I shall drive the horses and listen to the music."
"Yes, that will be very nice."
The room seemed warm after the November chill outside, and Miss Clement drew off her thick gloves. As her left hand dropped carelessly beside her, upon the edge of the sofa, she felt a sickening contact with something warm and very wet. Quickly she withdrew the hand. With an exclamation of disgust, she held aloft the befouled member. But the dog, whose generous tongue by one lingering stroke yielded such a vast amount of moisture, had risen upon his hind legs to accomplish it, and now stood looking up into her face for recognition of the friendly act. His reward was a look of loathing. And for a moment she still held aloft the varnished hand, uncertain what to do.
The boy laughed. "Why, it's nothing but dog spit!"