"Do you think that this is that one time?"
"Then"--she covered her face with her hands, leaning heavily on the table--"then what on earth are we to do?"
She looked up, pale as a ghost. "Yes," she said.
Some people rose and left the car. She sat apparently buried in colorless reverie. Twice her voice failed her; he bent nearer; and--
[Illustration: "'I LOVE YOU ENOUGH TO WAIT A MILLION YEARS!'"]
The servants had gathered in the front hall to inspect the new arrival--cook, kitchen-maid, butler, flanked on the right by parlor-maids, on the left by a footman and a small buttons.
The new arrival was a snow-white bull-terrier, alert, ardent, quivering in expectation of a welcome among these strangers, madly wagging his whiplike tail in passionate silence.
When the mistress of the house at last came down the great stone stairway, the servants fell back in a semi-circle, leaving her face to face with the white bull-terrier.
"So _that_ is the dog!" she said, in faint astonishment. A respectful murmur of assent corroborated her conclusion.
The dog's eyes met hers; she turned to the servants with a perplexed gesture.
"Is the brougham at the door?" asked the young mistress of the house.
Phelan, the coachman, arrived, large, rosy, freshly shaven, admirably correct.
"Phelan," said the young mistress, "look at that dog."
The coachman promptly fixed his eyes on the wagging bull-terrier. In spite of his decorous gravity a smile of distinct pleasure slowly spread over his square, pink face until it became a subdued simper.
"Is that a well-bred dog, Phelan?" demanded the young mistress.
"It is, ma'am," replied Phelan, promptly.
"In a fight, ma'am." Stifled enthusiasm swelled the veins in the coachman's forehead. Triumphant pæans of praise for the bull-terrier trembled upon his lips; but he stood rigid, correct, a martyr to his perfect training.
"Say what you wish to say, Phelan," prompted the young mistress, with a hasty glance at the dog.
"Thanky, ma'am.... The bull is the finest I ever laid eyes on.... He hasn't a blemish, ma'am; and the three years of him doubled will leave him three years to his prime, ma'am.... And there's never another bull, nor a screw-tail, nor cross, be it mastiff or fox or whippet, ma'am, that can loose the holt o' thim twin jaws.... Beg pardon, ma'am, I know the dog."