"I say is it true the bulldog bit you? I saw Goby yesterday in the park, and he said so," asked Bob, in great excitement. "It is true," said the poet. Penelope shook her head at the late owner of the dog. "Oh, Bob! Mr. de Vere, I’m very sorry." "So was I," said De Vere. "Where did he bite you?" asked Bob, anxiously. "Was it the arm or the leg? And did he hang on like a proper bulldog? Baker says that if a bulldog once gets hold, you have to use a red-hot poker to make him let go. Did you use a red-hot poker?" "He only snapped and fetched blood," said De Vere. "Ah!" cried Bob, "I always thought he wasn’t a real good bulldog." "At any rate, he bit the Irish terrier," said the poet. "I mean the one you sold to me for three pounds." "I’m glad he did, sir. That Irish terrier, though he’s splendidly bred, Baker says, has an awful temper and is very troublesome. Does Rollo, the retriever, howl much at night, sir?" "Oh, not so very much," said De Vere. "It’s only when the moon is near the full that he does his best." "I never thought of that," said Bob, "but now I remember that it was very moony when I sent him over to you. Baker said you’d like him. His kennel is next to Baker’s house." "I’m much obliged to Baker," said De Vere. "But the tail of the Borzois is still bald, Bob." Bob opened his eyes wide. "Oh, dear, I thought you would have cured him by now; and how about his bronchitis?" "That’s better, I hope and trust," said the poet. And Penelope, who was very greatly touched by his kindness to all these dogs, sent Bob into the library. "It’s so good of you to be kind to Bob," she said. "Bob’s a dear, and he adores me. He says that he’s going to live with me always, even when I’m married." [Illustration: AUSTIN DE VERE. He wrote poetry, and abhorred bulldogs and motor-cars] "Oh!" gasped De Vere. "We were talking about Goby, I think, when dear Bob came in. You’ll find him much improved, I’m sure, my dear Lady Penelope. He has read a great deal of Shelley and Keats and Browning with me. He was especially struck with ’Sordello.’ I read it to him and he sat with his hand to his forehead taking it all in. And every now and again he said, ’Great Scott!’ which is his way of expressing wonderment and admiration. I do not know its origin. I’ve written to Doctor Murray to ask him if he knows. And Goby, oh, yes, you’ll find him improved. I’ve done my best with him, and I’ve really struggled hard. Any improvement you notice is, I really believe, under you and Providence, due to me." And when he went, Penelope sat thinking. "The poor dear, how nicely he took the bulldog bites and the howling of the retriever. I think—I think I could almost love him!"