Amid some little excitement and anxious looks, Triss came up, growling
and showing his teeth. Frank explained that it was only his manner.
Frank took the paw that was extended to him, but Triss's friendliness
seemed somewhat dubious, for he still further uncovered his formidable
fangs.

"I really don't care to sit here with that ferocious brute."

"I assure you he won't bite, it is only his manner. Isn't it, Triss?
Kiss me, kiss me at once," and amid many growls of almost subterranean
awfulness, the dog licked his master's face.

"I wish you would tie him up--to oblige me."

Highly pleased at the fear and wonder his dog had struck in the gaudy
Jewesses and the shaky generals, Frank threatened and finally forced
the dog to lie down. He continued to expatiate on the dog's points--
the number of wrinkles, the bandiness of the legs, etc. The
conversation dropped in heat and glare, and the picturesqueness of the
sea.

"How horribly out of tune you do whistle--you go into a different key;
this is more like it."

"Yes, how sweetly she used to sing it. Do you remember the night we
went to see her, the last time the piece was played? I threw her a
bouquet, a splendid one it was, too, cost me three guineas in Covent
Garden. We went afterwards and had supper at Scott's in the Haymarket.
How jolly those days were. I don't seem to be able to enjoy myself now
as I used to then."