A crowd had sprung up in a wink; a circle of interested faces watching
the unembarrassed girl apologizing to the studious-looking little man
who sat so calmly upon his hat in the middle of the street. Meantime all
traffic on that side was hopelessly blocked. Swearing truck drivers
stood up on their seats from a block away to see what had halted the
procession.

"But what is the object of a dog like that?" inquired the man
ruminatively. "What good is he? What is he for?"

"Why--why--why," said she, looking ready to laugh--"he's not a
utilitarian dog at all, you see! He's a pleasure-dog, you know--just a
big, beautiful dog to give pleasure!--"

"The pleasure he has given me," said the man, gravely producing his
derby from beneath him and methodically undenting it, "is negligible. I
may say non-existent."

From somewhere rose a hoarse titter. The girl glanced up, and for the
first time became aware that her position was somewhat unconventional. A
very faint color sprang into her cheeks, but she was not the kind to
retreat in disorder. West dodged through the blockade in time to hear
her say with a final, smiling bow:

"I'm so glad you aren't hurt, believe me ... And if my dog has given you
no pleasure, you may like to think that you have given him a great
deal."

A little flushed but not defeated, her gloved hand knotted in Behemoth's