“Is this your dog?” she asked.
“Yes. And I'm sure”—volubly—“he would have been torn to pieces by that great hulking brute if you hadn't separated them. I should never have dared!”
Garth, coming out of the tobacconist's shop across the way, joined the little knot of people just in time to hear Sara answer cuttingly, as she put the terrier into its owner's arms—
“You've no business to have a dog if you've not got the pluck to look after him!”
As she and Trent bent their steps homeward, Sara regaled him with the full, true, and particular account of the dog-fight, winding up indignantly—
“Foul women like that ought not to be allowed to take out a dog licence. I hate people who shirk their responsibilities.”
“You despise cowards?” he asked.
“More than anything on earth,” she answered heartily.
He was silent a moment. Then he said reflectively—
“And yet, I suppose, a certain amount of allowance must be made for—nerves.”