"There," said Ronald, when the black and white coat was thoroughly clean, "he'll be a beauty when he's dry—won't you, Major?"
The dog shook himself vigorously and sprinkled every one except Beatrice, who was out of range. "Indeed he will," she answered, with suspicious warmth. "It's strange, isn't it, how washing improves pets?"
Forsyth began to dread what was coming, but Ronald heedlessly stumbled into the snare. "Of course it improves 'em," he said. "It's worth doing, if only for artistic reasons."
Her eyes danced and the dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth. "I would like," she began demurely, "to have Queen washed."
"Lord!" muttered the Ensign, mopping his forehead with his sleeve.
"Will you do it for me, Mr. Ronald?" she continued coaxingly.
For an instant he hesitated, then the worm turned. "No," he said quietly, "I won't. You can wash your own horse."
"Will you, Cousin Rob?" she asked sweetly, turning to Forsyth.
The dull colour bronzed his face and he saw a steely glitter in Ronald's blue eyes. "No," he answered, emboldened by the other's example; "not by any means."