"I adore mongrels!" exclaimed Mopsy. "I think that kind of dog which belongs to no particular breed, which has been ill-used by London boys, and which follows one to one's doorstep, is the most faithful and intelligent of the whole canine race. Huxley may exalt Blenheim spaniels as the nearest thing to human nature; but my dog Tim, which is something between a lurcher, a collie, and a bull, is ever so much better than human nature." "The Blenheim is greedy, luxurious, and lazy, and generally dies in middle life from the consequences of over-feeding," drawled Mr. FitzJesse. "I don't think Huxley is very far out." "I would back a Cornish sheep-dog against any animal in creation," said Christabel, patting Randie, who was standing amiably on end, with his fore-paws on the cushioned elbow of her chair. "Do you know that these dogs smile when they are pleased, and cry when they are grieved--and they will mourn for a master with a fidelity unknown in humanity." "Which as a rule does not mourn," said FitzJesse. "It only goes into mourning." And so the talk went on, always running upon trivialities--glancing from theme to theme--a mere battledore and shuttlecock conversation--making a mock of most things and most people. Christabel joined in it all; and some of the bitterest speech that was spoken in that hour before the sounding of the seven o'clock gong, fell from her perfect lips. "Did you ever see such a change in any one as in Mrs. Tregonell?" asked Dopsy of Mopsy, as they elbowed each other before the looking-glass, the first armed with a powder puff, the second with a little box containing the implements required for the production of piquant eyebrows. "A wonderful improvement," answered Mopsy. "She's ever so much easier to get on with. I didn't think it was in her to be so thoroughly _chic_." "Do you know, I really liked her better last year, when she was frumpy and dowdy," faltered Dopsy. "I wasn't able to get on with her, but I couldn't help looking up to her, and feeling that, after all, she was the right kind of woman. And now----" "And now she condescends to be human--to be one of us--and the consequence is that her house is three times as nice as it was last year," said Mopsy, turning the corner of an eyebrow with a bold but careful hand, and sending a sharp elbow into Dopsy's face during the operation. "I wish you'd be a little more careful," ejaculated Dopsy. "I wish you'd contrive not to want the glass exactly when I do," retorted Mopsy. "How do you like the French Baron?" asked Dopsy, when a brief silence had restored her equanimity. "French, indeed! He is no more French than I am. Mr. FitzJesse told me that he was born and brought up in Jersey--that his father was an Irish Major on half-pay, and his mother a circus rider." "But how does he come by his title--if it is a real title?"