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Pasquale is very pretty and he makes me laugh and I like him,
said Carlotta.
I am very sorry to hear it, said I.
The griffon, who had been sniffing at Carlotta's skirts, suddenly
leaped into her lap. With a swift movement of her hand she swept
the poor little creature, as if it had been a noxious insect,
yards away.
Carlotta! I cried angrily, springing to my feet.
The ladies who owned the beast rushed to their whining pet and
looked astonished daggers at Carlotta. When they picked it up,
it sat dangling a piteous paw. Carlotta rose, merely scared at
my anger. I raised my hat.
I am more than sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I hope
the little dog is not hurt. My ward, for whom I offer a thousand
apologies, is a Mohammedan, to whom all dogs are unclean. Please
attribute the accident to religious instinct.
The younger of the two, who had been examining the paw, looked up
with a smile.
Your ward is forgiven. Punch oughtn't to jump on strange
ladies' laps, whether they are Mohammedans or not. Oh! he is
more frightened than hurt. And I, she added, with a twinkling
eye, am more hurt than frightened, because Sir Marcus Ordeyne
doesn't recognise me.
So Carlotta had nearly killed the dog of an unrecalled
acquaintance.
I do indeed recognise you now, said I, mendaciously. I seem to
have been lying today through thick and thin. But in the
confusion of the disaster
You sat next me at lunch one day last winter, at Mrs.
Ordeyne's, interrupted the lady, and you talked to me of
transcendental mathematics.
I remembered. The crime, said I, has lain heavily on my
conscience.
I don't believe a word of it, she laughed, dismissing me with a
bow. I raised my hat and joined Carlotta.
It was a Miss Gascoigne, a flirtatious intimate of Aunt Jessica's
house. To this irresponsible young woman I had openly avowed
that I was the guardian of a beautiful Mohammedan whose religious
instinct compelled her to destroy little dogs. I shall hear of
this from my Aunt Jessica.
I walked stonily away with Carlotta.
You are cross with me, she whimpered.
Yes, I am. You might have killed the poor little beast. It was
very wicked and cruel of you.
Carlotta burst out crying in the midst of the promenade.
The tears did not romantically come into her eyes as they had
done an hour before; but she wept copiously, after the
unrestrained manner of children, and used her pocket
handkerchief. From their seats women put up their lorgnons to

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