It came with a smile and a pretty fancy, as though she caught the mood of
the novelist's reply. "He has told me so much about you--how kind you are
to him, and how he loves you. I hope you don't mind that he and I have
learned to be good friends. Won't you tell me his name? I have tried
everything, but nothing seems to fit. To call such a royal fellow,
'doggie', doesn't do at all, does it?"

Conrad Lagrange laughed--and it was the laugh of a Conrad Lagrange unknown
to the world. "No," he said with mock seriousness, "'doggie,' doesn't do
at all. He's not that kind of a dog. His name is Czar. That is"--he added,
giving full rein to his droll humor--"I gave it to him for a name. He has
made it his title. He did that, you know, so I would always remember that
he is my superior."

She laughed--low, full-throated and clear--as a girl who has not sadly
learned that she is a woman, laughs. Then she fell to caressing the dog
and calling him by name; while Czar--in his efforts to express his delight
and satisfaction--was as nearly undignified as it was possible for him to
be.

As he watched them, the rugged, world-worn features of the famous novelist
were lighted with an expression that transformed them.

"And I suppose," she said,--still responding to the novelist's playful
mood,--"that Czar told you I was trespassing in your garden. Of course it
was his duty to tell. I hope he told you, also, that I do not steal your
roses."

The man shook his head, and his sharp, green-gray eyes were twinkling
merrily, now--as a boy in the spirit of some amusing venture. "Oh, no!