"No," he said with mock seriousness, "'doggie,' doesn't do
at all. He's not that kind of a dog. His name is Czar. That is"--he added,
giving full rein to his droll humor--"I gave it to him for a name. He has
made it his title. He did that, you know, so I would always remember that
he is my superior."
She laughed--low, full-throated and clear--as a girl who has not sadly
learned that she is a woman, laughs. Then she fell to caressing the dog
and calling him by name; while Czar--in his efforts to express his delight
and satisfaction--was as nearly undignified as it was possible for him to
be.
As he watched them, the rugged, world-worn features of the famous novelist
were lighted with an expression that transformed them.
"And I suppose," she said,--still responding to the novelist's playful
mood,--"that Czar told you I was trespassing in your garden. Of course it
was his duty to tell. I hope he told you, also, that I do not steal your
roses."
The man shook his head, and his sharp, green-gray eyes were twinkling
merrily, now--as a boy in the spirit of some amusing venture. "Oh, no!
Czar said nothing at all about trespassers. He did tell me, though, about
a wonderful creature that comes every day to visit the garden.
Pages:
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143