A one-sided conversation didn’t meet the case, so the “dumb animal” (as they call it) gave me the cue for my next remark to the almost equally dumb human being. “I’ve always wanted to know where he got his rather curious name,” I said. “What _does_ it mean?” “It’s Welsh,” explained my employer abruptly, still standing by the open window. “It means ‘Sweetheart’”—if you must know, his tone concluded. “Oh.... Is he a Welsh terrier?” “We got him from Wales. From a little place in Anglesey where my people sometimes go for the summer holidays,” my employer vouchsafed, with an effort. “Porth Cariad the name of it is—‘Port Sweetheart.’” “Fancy calling a _place_ that!” I took up, with the one idea of keeping this conversation from coming to a dead stop. “But some people call _anything_ that!” (I was wondering inwardly what this last remark could possibly mean even as I went on.) “Is it by the sea?” “Er—I think so.” “Oh, yes; ports generally are, of course.... Is it—is it a _pretty_ place at all?” “Quite. It hasn’t been spoilt yet. Charming little bay. The usual sort of thing.” (Pause.) “Yes—? _Do_ tell me about it!” “Oh! I don’t know—There are about two cottages. No end of gorse—heather.” “How lovely!” Then, scenting another pause, I hurried on—“Isn’t there anything _else_ there?” “Well—There’s a sort of woman.” “A woman? Really? How interesting! What sort of a woman?” “Oh, a _wooden_ one,” returned the Governor, who was too obviously thinking about something else. A wooden woman! What _could_ he mean by it? But before I could begin my next question the door opened; the Governor turned quickly, then, seeing who came in, he exclaimed in accents of concentrated disgust: “Theo! Isn’t it time you were in bed?” “No! Because I’m not going! I’m going to sit up for dinner, just for this once!” announced the child, triumphantly advancing upon us in a Prize-Day “effect” of let-down white skirts and long, cream-silk-stockinged legs. “I asked Mother, and that nice old man” (Poor Major Montresor!) “begged her to let me, and I may! So there! Nancy, _don’t_ you like the way I’ve done my hair for it?” She had tied a fillet of white satin—a bit of the same ribbon which was disconcerting Cariad—about her short curls. “What’s that for? To keep your brains from bursting through?” demanded her brother crossly. But Theodora only tossed that yellow posy of a head of hers, retorting that Major Montresor thought she was sixteen, and was going to sit next her, and that there would be a _surprise_ at dinner! * * * * * The surprise—or the series of surprises—didn’t dawn upon me in its full hideousness all at once.