"By all means let them come up."
She ran down-stairs, and returned with the seven little dogs at her heels. Tanqueray held out his hand invitingly. (He was fond of animals.) The fox and the dandy sniffed him suspiciously. The old Aberdeen ran away from him backwards, showing her teeth. Her two pups sat down in the doorway and yapped at him.
Rose tried not to laugh, while the Poms ran round and round her skirts, panting with their ridiculous exertions.
"That's Prince—the mole—he's a pedigree dog. He doesn't belong to us. And this," said Rose, darting under the table and picking up the white Pom, "this is Joey."
The white Pom leaped in her arms. He licked her face in a rapture of affection.
"Is Joey a pedigree dog, too?" said Tanqueray.
"Yes," said Rose. She met his eyes without flinching.
"So young a dog——"
"No, sir, Joey's not so very young."
She was caressing the little thing tenderly, and Tanqueray saw that there was something wrong with Joey.