no sign of incipient hydrophobia--and Jane Coop, her maid.

It were best to describe them both now, and so get it all over.

Whilst waiting one exeat upon Waterloo station, the girl had annexed
unto herself a holy terror in the shape of a brindle bull-pup.

The hilarious quadruped had twined its leash about one leg of its
master--who was an alien from Wapping--and the spout of a zinc
watering-can which a porter had left upon the platform; for which joke
it had received a vile cuff on its wrinkled physiognomy from the alien
master.

Like some avenging goddess, Damaris, the ladylike, almost finished
product of Onslow House, sprang straight at the man, smote him with the
flat of the hand upon the face, and pounced upon the yelping pup.

"Take your leg out of the dog's chain, you idiot!" she cried, her eyes
blazing, her perfect teeth flashing in a positive snarl. "Be quick;
don't be so clumsy. How dare you hit a dog. He _hit_ him," she
announced to the interested, sympathetic crowd. "Hit him on his lovely
face.

"You gif that dog back to me, missie,--he's mine."

"He's mine. I've got him, and my mother is one of the heads of the
Society that protects children."

"That's got nothing to do wif dogs."