My Ladys Money | Page 9

Hardyman, naturally enough, was
slow to follow her. When a man is fascinated by the charm of youth
and beauty, he is in no hurry to transfer his attention to a sick animal in
a bath. Hardyman seized on the first excuse that he could devise for
keeping Isabel to himself--that is to say, for keeping her in the
drawing-room.
"I think I shall be better able to help you," he said, "if you will tell me
something about the dog first."
Even his accent in speaking had altered to a certain degree. The quiet,
dreary monotone in which he habitually spoke quickened a little under
his present excitement. As for Isabel, she was too deeply interested in
Tommie's welfare to suspect that she was being made the victim of a
stratagem. She left the door and returned to Hardyman with eager eyes.
"What can I tell you, sir?" she asked innocently.
Hardyman pressed his advantage without mercy.
"You can tell me what sort of dog he is?"
"Yes, sir."
"How old he is?"
"Yes, sir."
"What his name is?--what his temper is?--what his illness is? what
diseases his father and mother had?--what--"
Isabel's head began to turn giddy. "One thing at a time, sir!" she
interposed, with a gesture of entreaty. "The dog sleeps on my bed, and I
had a bad night with him, he disturbed me so, and I am afraid I am very
stupid this morning. His name is Tommie. We are obliged to call him

by it, because he won't answer to any other than the name he had when
my Lady bought him. But we spell it with an i e at the end, which
makes it less vulgar than Tommy with a y. I am very sorry, sir--I forget
what else you wanted to know. Please to come in here and my Lady
will tell you everything."
She tried to get back to the door of the boudoir. Hardyman, feasting his
eyes on the pretty, changeful face that looked up at him with such
innocent confidence in his authority, drew her away from the door by
the one means at his disposal. He returned to his questions about
Tommie.
"Wait a little, please. What sort of dog is he?"
Isabel turned back again from the door. To describe Tommie was a
labor of love. "He is the most beautiful dog in the world!" the girl
began, with kindling eyes. "He has the most exquisite white curly hair
and two light brown patches on his back--and, oh! such lovely dark
eyes! They call him a Scotch terrier. When he is well his appetite is
truly wonderful--nothing comes amiss to him, sir, from pate de foie
gras to potatoes. He has his enemies, poor dear, though you wouldn't
think it. People who won't put up with being bitten by him (what
shocking tempers one does meet with, to be sure!) call him a mongrel.
Isn't it a shame? Please come in and see him, sir; my Lady will be tired
of waiting."
Another journey to the door followed those words, checked instantly by
a serious objection.
"Stop a minute! You must tell me what his temper is, or I can do
nothing for him."
Isabel returned once more, feeling that it was really serious this time.
Her gravity was even more charming than her gayety. As she lifted her
face to him, with large solemn eyes, expressive of her sense of
responsibility, Hardyman would have given every horse in his stables
to have had the privilege of taking her in his arms and kissing her.

"Tommie has the temper of an angel with the people he likes," she said.
"When he bites, it generally means that he objects to strangers. He
loves my Lady, and he loves Mr. Moody, and he loves me, and--and I
think that's all. This way, sir, if you please, I am sure I heard my Lady
call."
"No," said Hardyman, in his immovably obstinate way. "Nobody called.
About this dog's temper? Doesn't he take to any strangers? What sort of
people does he bite in general?"
Isabel's pretty lips began to curl upward at the corners in a quaint smile.
Hardyman's last imbecile question had opened her eyes to the true state
of the case. Still, Tommie's future was in this strange gentleman's hands;
she felt bound to consider that. And, moreover, it was no everyday
event, in Isabel's experience, to fascinate a famous personage, who was
also a magnificent and perfectly dressed man. She ran the risk of
wasting another minute or two, and went on with the memoirs of
Tommie.
"I must own, sir," she resumed, "that he behaves a little
ungratefully--even to strangers who take an interest in him. When he
gets lost in the streets (which is very