"The Author," Alicia explained, mischievously, "is trying to make sense out of nonsense."
"That," said Mr. Jelnik, smiling, "is not an uncommon occupation."
"It's all about a bit of doggerel we found on a scrap of paper in the attic," I told him. And I quoted it, adding: "There was a column of dots under it. The Author laments that he lost it, before he had chance to unravel it."
"I lost it, walking in my sleep," said The Author, disagreeably.
"And now he's trying to make us believe that the design in the brick-work above our windows, just because it's the Greek fret, is Hellen's Keye," Alicia said, jestingly.
"Well, you know, if a thing means anything, it's got to mean something," put in Mr. Johnson.
"Ain't it the truth, though?" hissed The Author, with fury.
Mr. Johnson was saved from stammering explanations by the irruption of Beautiful Dog, who at sound of his voice had wriggled, and cringed, and fawned his way out of the shrubbery, cocking a wary eye to see that none of the Black family was around. Beautiful Dog rolled his eyes at his god, swung his tail, waggled his ears, made uncouth movements with his splay feet, and grinned from ear to ear. He was so utterly absurd that he claimed everybody's amused attention.
"Why, old chap! You're rather glad to see your friends, aren't you?" the secretary said in his pleasant voice.
Beautiful Dog yelped with rapture, darted back into the shrubbery, and a moment later emerged and laid at his adored one's feet all his treasure, a chewed slipper. He tried to say that precious as this gift undoubtedly was, he gave it willingly, joyfully. But scenting other white people too near, he backed off, and fled.