She laughed in turn; she could not help it at the memories this title called to mind. "Well, it's best to be particular with strangers, isn't it?" Down went the eyes to search in the bottom of a teacup.
"I fancied we were not wholly that; I told Aunt Meda about our escapade six years ago; surely, that affair ought to establish a common ground for our continued acquaintance. But, if that's not sufficient, I can find another nearer at hand—where's my dog?"
This brought her to terms.
"Oh, I can't do anything with Rag, Mr. Googe; I'm so sorry. He's over in the coach house this very minute, and Tave was going to take him home to-night. Just think! That seven-year-old dog has to be carried home, old as he is!"
"If it's come to that, I'll take him home under my arm to-night—that is, if he won't follow; I'll try that first."
"But you're not going to punish him!—and simply because he likes me. That wouldn't be fair!"
She made her protest indignantly. Champney looked at his aunt with an amused smile. She nodded understandingly.
"Oh, no; not simply because he likes you, but because he is untrue to me, his master."
"But that isn't fair!" she exclaimed again, her cheeks flushing rose red; "you've been away so long that the dog has forgotten."
"Oh, no, he hasn't; or if he has I must jog his memory. He's Irish, and the supreme characteristic of that breed is fidelity."