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“Oh, surely you know: wasn’t it Alcibiades who gave up being dictator or something rather than have his dog’s ears cut off?”

“I seem to remember something of the sort,” he said.

“Well,” said she, “his price is twenty guineas, but”

He whistled very softly.

“Yes—I know,” she said, “but I’ll—yes, Aunt, in one moment!” She went on in an agonised undertone: “His price is twenty guineas. Say you’ll have him. Say it loud. You won’t really have to pay anything for him—No, I’m not mad.”

“I’ll give you twenty guineas for the dog,” said the man, standing straight and soldierly against the tumbled mass of mats and pin-cushions and chair-backs.

The Aunt drew a long breath and turned to minister to Mrs Biddle’s deep need of d’oyleys.

“Come and have tea,” said the stranger; “you’re tired out.”

“No—I can’t. Of course I can’t—but I’ll take you over to Mrs Piddock’s stall and” She led him away. “Look here,” she said, “I’m sure you’re a decent sort. Here’s the money to pay for him.