"There, there, there," said Lord Barmouth, "let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and--and-- and," he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, "I won't have my little girl here troubled about it." "For Heaven's sake, behave like a gentleman if you can," whispered her ladyship. "Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will," said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door. "No, 'pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude," said Sir Grantley. "It concerns you so much, don't you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth," he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them--"fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude's handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped." "Well, suppose a dog did," said Tom coming to his sister's rescue; "I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose." "He, he, he!" chuckled his lordship; "that's not bad, Tom;" while her ladyship looked daggers. "Doosed good--very doosed good," said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. "If it had been another dog, it wouldn't have mattered, but it was--er--er--er--a very particular dog." "Just as I said--over his nose," said Tom. "It--it--it was Charley Melton's dog," said Lord Barmouth, and Maude's face became crimson. "Yes, and that's the dayvle of it," said Sir Grantley, angrily. "I don't choose for that fler's dog to come and take such a liberty. He was--er--hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship's pocket, here, don't you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do--damme!" Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up. Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.