“Pasquale.”
“Pasquale has no sense,” said I. “There are men to whom all women who are not seventy and toothless and rheumy at the eyes are beautiful. Pasquale has said the same to every woman he has met. He is a Lothario and a Don Juan and a Caligula and a Faublas and a Casanova.”
“And he tells lies, too?”
“Millions of them,” said I. “He contracts with their father Beelzebub for a hundred gross a day.”
“Pasquale is very pretty and he makes me laugh and I like him,” said Carlotta.
“I am very sorry to hear it,” said I.
The griffon, who had been sniffing at Carlotta’s skirts, suddenly leaped into her lap. With a swift movement of her hand she swept the poor little creature, as if it had been a noxious insect, yards away.
“Carlotta!” I cried angrily, springing to my feet.
The ladies who owned the beast rushed to their whining pet and looked astonished daggers at Carlotta. When they picked it up, it sat dangling a piteous paw. Carlotta rose, merely scared at my anger. I raised my hat.
“I am more than sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I hope the little dog is not hurt. My ward, for whom I offer a thousand apologies, is a Mohammedan, to whom all dogs are unclean. Please attribute the accident to religious instinct.”