Turgeinov, comédienne!"

Mr. Heatherbloom did not repair to the point of elevation the next day,
nor the day after; but she met him the third day near the Seventy-second
Street entrance. More than that, she insinuated herself at his side; at
first rather to his discomfort. Later he forgot the constraint her
presence occasioned him, when something she said caused him to look upon
her with new favor. Beauty had momentarily escaped his vigilance and
enjoyed a mad romp after a squirrel before she was captured.

What, his companion laughingly suggested, would have happened if Beauty
had really escaped, and he, Mr. Heatherbloom, had been forced to return
to the house without her? What? Mr. Heatherbloom started. He might lose
his position, _n'est-cepas?_ He did not answer.

The idea was born; why _not_ lose Beauty? No, better still, Naughty; the
prime favorite, Naughty. He looked into Naughty's eyes, and they seemed
full of liquid reproach. Naughty had been his friend--supposititiously,
and to abandon him now to the world, a cold place devoid of French lamb
chops? A hard place for homeless dogs and men, alike! About to waive the
temptation, Mr. Heatherbloom paused; the idea was capable of
modification or expansion. Most ideas are.

But he shortly afterward dismissed the entire matter from his mind; it
would, at best, be but a compromise, an evasion of the pact he had made
with himself. It was not to be thought of. At this moment his companion
swayed and Mr. Heatherbloom had just time to put out his arm; then
helped her to a bench.

She partly recovered; it was nothing, she remarked bravely. One gets