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her cat. Chu-Chin wouldn’t hurt the cat—he merely wants to play with her, and the foolish old thing runs. Now, you know, when a cat runs, a dog simply can’t help chasing her. As Kipling tells us, he wouldn’t be a proper dog if he didn’t. If only that white fiend had confined himself to chasing the cat!”

“It is too bad about Mrs. Royal’s begonia,” said Emily, regretfully.

“Yes, that is a pity. Aunt Angela’s had it for years. But I'll get her a new one. When I saw you coming up the walk with that dog frisking around you, of course I concluded he was yours. I had put on my favourite dress because it really makes me look almost beautiful—and I wanted you to love me; and when the beast muddied it all over and you never said a word of rebuke or apology, I simply went into one of my cold rages. I do go into them—I can’t help it. It’s one of my little faults. But I soon thaw out if no fresh aggravation occurs. In this case fresh aggravation occurred every minute. I vowed to myself that if you did not even try to make your dog behave I would not suggest that you should. And I suppose you were indignant because I calmly let my dog spoil your violets and eat your manuscripts?”

“I was.”

“It’s too bad about the manuscripts. Perhaps we can find them—he can’t really have swallowed them, but I suppose he has chewed them to bits.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have other copies at home.”

“And your questions! Emily, you were too delicious. Did you really write down my answers?”

“Word for word. I meant to print them just so, too. Mr. Towers had given me a list of questions for you, but of course I didn’t mean to fire them off point-blank like that. I meant to weave them artfully into our conversation as we went along. But here comes Mrs. Royal.”

Mrs. Royal came in, smiling. Her face changed as she saw the begonia. But Miss Royal interposed quickly.

“Dearest Aunty, don’t weep or faint—at least not before