"Oh, a Canadian," he replied, as though that explained everything. "And, by the way, what's her name?"
"She lets me call her Winnie," I said.
"And what do I call her?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "if I were you I'd call her Winnie too. She'd love it."
"This is extraordinarily interesting," he replied. "But you know I'm far too shy to do a thing like that."
When, however, the time came and we were shown into Winnie's drawing-room in Mappin Terrace and the most adorable brown bear in captivity came lumbering towards us, he called her Winnie as naturally as her keeper does or any of the Canadian soldiers whose mascot she was, and he held the honey-pot for her until her tongue had extracted every drop. She then clawed at his pocket for more.
"I told you she'd like you," I said.
"Isn't she a pet? And a brunette all right? I didn't deceive you."
"She's perfect," he said. "Absolutely the Queen of She-Bears."
And so say all good Zoologicians.