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 boy of fourteen, of an almost girlish delicacy of complexion. The duke, a dapper little thin-lipped man of thirty-five with a small, unhappy drab mustache with which he for ever fidgeted, gave her an indifferent glance and protruded two limp fingers. Pollyooly shook them gingerly. Ronald shook hands with her in a somewhat perfunctory and condescending fashion.

Then another new-comer, a fox-terrier, came forward and sniffed at her skirts with an air of inquiring doubt.

Their elders, who were talking to one another, did not observe it; but Ronald said in a tone of great astonishment, "Why, what's the matter with Wiggs? He's pretending he doesn't know Marion."

It seemed to Pollyooly that now, if ever, was the time for airs; she drew herself up and said scornfully: "He's a silly dog."

"That he isn't! He's one of the most intelligent dogs in the world; and you know it as well as I do," said Ronald hotly.

"He's not intelligent now, anyhow," said Pollyooly coldly.

"He must be kidding," said Ronald; but he