"
She tried to get back to the door of the boudoir. Hardyman, feasting
his eyes on the pretty, changeful face that looked up at him with such
innocent confidence in his authority, drew her away from the door by the
one means at his disposal. He returned to his questions about Tommie.
"Wait a little, please. What sort of dog is he?"
Isabel turned back again from the door. To describe Tommie was a labor
of love. "He is the most beautiful dog in the world!" the girl began,
with kindling eyes. "He has the most exquisite white curly hair and two
light brown patches on his back--and, oh! _such_ lovely dark eyes!
They call him a Scotch terrier. When he is well his appetite is truly
wonderful--nothing comes amiss to him, sir, from pate de foie gras to
potatoes. He has his enemies, poor dear, though you wouldn't think it.
People who won't put up with being bitten by him (what shocking tempers
one does meet with, to be sure!) call him a mongrel. Isn't it a shame?
Please come in and see him, sir; my Lady will be tired of waiting."
Another journey to the door followed those words, checked instantly by a
serious objection.
"Stop a minute! You must tell me what his temper is, or I can do nothing
for him."
Isabel returned once more, feeling that it was really serious this time.
Her gravity was even more charming than her gayety. As she lifted
her face to him, with large solemn eyes, expressive of her sense of
responsibility, Hardyman would have given every horse in his stables to
have had the privilege of taking her in his arms and kissing her.
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