She did not even take the trouble to answer but became absorbed in tending the dog. It was a white dog, at least its hair was white; but now, soaked and plastered to its body, the general effect was of a cloudy pink with gray spots. It was the offspring probably of a spotted carriage dog and a poodle. Between it and Pearl a perfect understanding seemed to have been at once established. She knelt beside it, and suddenly looking up at Anthony with one of her spreading smiles, she said, "I'm afraid it's awfully ugly." "It has personality," he answered. He could not but be aware that Pearl's thin dress was clinging to her almost as closely as the dog's soft coat. "Let me have your coat," she said. He held it out, expecting that she meant to put it on, for every line of her figure was visible, and every line was lovely. But Pearl was utterly unconscious of herself. She took the coat and wrapped the dog in it, so that only its head stuck out, with its adoring eyes turned to her. As he watched her he found he knew positively that she had not taken the pearls. It was no logical process; he did not say, "This girl is too kind or too generous or too without selfconsciousness or too much at peace." Perhaps it was a combination of all these ideas, or perhaps it was just the miracle of personality; but somehow or other he knew positively and for all time that she was not a thief; that she, on the contrary, was just what in his opinion a woman ought to be. He looked down at the bent golden head, dripping pure drops of crystal. Dyed! What a spiteful goose Cora Wellington was! Then Durland came down the steps. "What's happened?" he asked. "We've been rescuing a dog," said Anthony. "Miss--Exeter and I." So far he knew no other name for her. Durland smiled at him above her head, as much as to say, "Could anything be more ridiculously attaching than women are--this woman in particular?" And Anthony smiled back in a similar manner. Then there was a shout, and Antonia, having finished her supper and exhausted at least for the moment Mr. Albertson's narrative powers, came flying down the steps, eager to know why it was that Miss Exeter and her uncle had been in swimming with their clothes on. When explained, it appeared to her the most natural thing in the world. "Isn't he sweet?" she said, when she had heard the story. "I think Horatius would be a good name for him--on account of 'Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, struggle through such a raging flood'--you know. Do you think mother will let us keep him? Or do you want to keep him, Miss Exeter? Oh, dear, I suppose you do!" "No, I can't," said Pearl, with regret. "I'd like to, but Alfred hates dogs." Anthony was surprised to hear his own voice saying sharply, "And who is Alfred?" "He's my cat," said Pearl, turning her whole face up to him. "Everyone says he's very ugly, but I love him." They smiled at each other; it was so obvious that Anthony refrained from saying, "Lucky creature."