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Paul was awakened next morning by a cold nose and a pair of clumsy paws. He was being earnestly smelt and he could hear an unwieldy tail, somewhere near the floor, thudding forth the time to an inward scherzo. He pulled the puppy on the sofa beside him, dodging its familiar tongue.

Encouraged by this reception, Aïda, by means of sniffs and writhings, sudden rigidities, sudden collapses, and a crescendo of tail-waggings, descanted on the joys of outdoor life. She had already roused her master, and there were sounds of rushing water from the direction of the bathroom.

Paul sprang up and went to the open window, shivering at the chill of the morning air. The thin November sunlight had splashed its way into the garden at the back of the hotel, casting lacy shadows on the orange sand and picking out gay colours in the flower-beds.

Breakfast, consisting of coffee, rolls, shredded wheat—in sample cakes—and cream, was brought into the sitting-room half an hour later, and Aïda, with a deep, explosive sigh of resignation, collapsed before the closed door.

"What's her nationality? She looks a mut like everybody and everything else in this land, where even the breakfasts are Turkish-American."

"She is," Patrick assented. "A lady that was staying here for her health had a prize female cocker spaniel which got loose one day. The old dame hoped for the best, see, but the worst happened, and the spaniel up and had Ada—I named her after the opera. Mrs. Thingamatite was mad as a hatter and ordered the litter drowned. I happened along as the guy was takin' 'em to the Nile in a bag, and rescued this one, not realizing it was a her. I had nothin' to feed her with but a