"Tommie has the temper of an angel with the people he likes," she said.
"When he bites, it generally means that he objects to strangers. He
loves my Lady, and he loves Mr. Moody, and he loves me, and--and I think
that's all. This way, sir, if you please, I am sure I heard my Lady
call."
"No," said Hardyman, in his immovably obstinate way. "Nobody called.
About this dog's temper? Doesn't he take to any strangers? What sort of
people does he bite in general?"
Isabel's pretty lips began to curl upward at the corners in a quaint
smile. Hardyman's last imbecile question had opened her eyes to the
true state of the case. Still, Tommie's future was in this strange
gentleman's hands; she felt bound to consider that. And, moreover, it
was no everyday event, in Isabel's experience, to fascinate a famous
personage, who was also a magnificent and perfectly dressed man. She ran
the risk of wasting another minute or two, and went on with the memoirs
of Tommie.
"I must own, sir," she resumed, "that he behaves a little
ungratefully--even to strangers who take an interest in him. When he
gets lost in the streets (which is very often), he sits down on the
pavement and howls till he collects a pitying crowd round him; and when
they try to read his name and address on his collar he snaps at them.
The servants generally find him and bring him back; and as soon as he
gets home he turns round on the doorstep and snaps at the servants. I
think it must be his fun. You should see him sitting up in his chair at
dinner-time, waiting to be helped, with his fore paws on the edge of the
table, like the hands of a gentleman at a public dinner making a speech.
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