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There suddenly popped into Emily’s mind a story she had heard of Lofty John’s father, who was in the habit of telling his wife,

“When people do be after snubbing you, Bridget, pull up your lip, Bridget, pull up your lip.”

Emily pulled up her lip.

“A very playful dog,” she said sarcastically.

“Very,” agreed Miss Royal composedly.

“Don’t you think a little discipline would improve him?” asked Emily.

“No, I do not think so,” said Miss Royal meditatively.

Chu-Chin returned at this moment, capered about the room, knocked a small glass vase off a taboret with a whisk of his tail, sniffed at the ensuing fragments, then bounded up on the davenport again, where he sat panting. “Oh, what a good dog am I!”

Emily picked up her note-book and pencil.

“Mr. Towers sent me to interview you,” she said.

“So I understand,” said Miss Royal, never taking her eyes off her worshipped chow.

Emily: “May I trouble you to answer a few questions?”

Miss Royal, with exaggerated amiability: “Charmed.”

(Chu-Chin, having saved enough breath, springs from the davenport and rushes through the half-opened folding doors of the dining-room.)

Emily, consulting note-book and recklessly asking the first question jotted down therein: “What do you think will be the result of the Presidential election this fall?”

Miss Royal: “I never think about it.”

(Emily, with compressed lips, writes down in her note-book: “She never thinks about it.” Chu-Chin reappears, darts through parlour and out into the garden, carrying a roast chicken in his mouth.)

Miss Royal: “There goes my supper.”

Emily, checking off first question: “Is there any likelihood that the United States Congress will look favour-