Jane rushed in; at the same time four or five dogs that had followed in the lady's wake began to bark as if they, too, were echoing the plaint: "What a frightful odor! Salts, Jane, salts!" And as they barked in many keys, but always fortissimo, they ran frantically this way and that as though chased by somebody, or something (perhaps the odor of gasolene), or chasing one another in a mad outburst of canine exuberance. "Sardanapolis! Beauty! Curly! Naughty!" the lady called out. But in vain. Sardanapolis continued to cut capers; Beauty's conduct was not beautiful; while as for Naughty (all yellow bows and black curls) he seemed endeavoring to live up to the fullest realization of his name. "Dear me! What _shall_ I do?" "Just let 'em alone, ma'am," ventured Jane, "and they'll soon tire themselves out." Fortunately, by this time, the be-ribboned pets showed signs of reaching that state of ennui. "Dear me!" said now the lady anxiously. "How wet the poor dears' tongues are!" "Nature of the b--poor dears, ma'am!" commented Jane. The lady looked at her. "_You_ don't like dogs," she said. "You can go." And then to Mr. Heatherbloom: "What brought you here? Don't answer at once. Stand farther back." Mr. Heatherbloom, who seemed to have been rather enjoying this little impromptu entertainment, straightened with a start; he retired a few paces, observing in a mild explanatory tone something about spots on his garments and the necessity for having them removed at a certain little Greek shop, before doing himself the honor of calling and-- "You're another answer to the advertisement then, I suppose?" the lady's voice unceremoniously interrupted. He confessed himself Another Answer, and in that capacity proceeded now to reply as best he might to a merciless and rapid fire of questions. She would have made an excellent cross-examiner for the prosecution; Mr. Heatherbloom did not seem to enjoy the grilling. A number of queries he answered frankly; others he evaded. He seemed--ominous circumstance!--especially secretive regarding certain details of his past. He did not care to say where he was born, or who his parents were. What had he done? What occupations had he followed? Well--he seemed to hesitate a good deal--he had once tried washing dishes; but--dreamily--they had discharged him; the man said something about there being a debit balance on account of damaged crockery. He had essayed the rôle of waiter but had lasted only through the first courses; down to the entrées, he thought; certainly not much past the pottage. He believed he bumped into another waiter; a few guests within range had seemed put out; afterward, he himself was put out. And then--well, he had somehow drifted, more or less. "Drifted!" said the lady ominously.