"The Egyptians, on the other hand," she read, a note of triumph in her voice, "venerated the dog, and when a dog died they shaved their heads as a badge of mourning——"
"The Egyptians did, hey?" remarked Mr. Pottle, open disgust on his apple of face. "Shaved their own heads, did they? No wonder they all turned to mummies. You can't tell me it's safe for a man to shave his own head; there ought to be a law against it."
Mr. Pottle was in the barber business.
Unheedful of this digression, Mrs. Pottle read on.
"There are many sorts of dogs. I'll read the list so we can pick out ours. You needn't look cranky, Ambrose; we're going to have one. Let me see. Ah, yes. 'There are Great Danes, mastiffs, collies, dalmatians, chows, New Foundlands, poodles, setters, pointers, retrievers—Labrador and flat-coated—spaniels, beagles, dachshunds—I'll admit they are rather nasty; they're the only sort of dog I can't bear—whippets, otterhounds, terriers, including Scotch, Irish, Welsh, Skye and fox, and St. Bernards.' St. Bernards, it says, are the largest; 'their ears are small and their foreheads white and dome-shaped, giving them the well known expression of benignity and intelligence.' Oh, Ambrose"—her eyes were full of dreams—"Oh, Ambrose, wouldn't it be just too wonderful for words to have a great, big, beautiful dog like that?"
"There isn't any too much room in this bungalow as it is," demurred Mr. Pottle. "Better get a chow."
"You don't seem to realize, Ambrose Pottle," the lady replied with some severity, "that what I want a dog for is protection."
"Protection, my angel? Can't I protect you?"
"Not when you're away on the road selling your shaving cream. Then's when I need some big, loyal creature to protect me."
"From what?"